


with all my stars awake and bright

by Flightstorm9



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Sharing, Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Confusion, Demonic Possession, Disassociation, Dreamon, Gen, Ghost Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Memory Loss, Minecraft but IRL, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Human Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), POV Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Pandora's Vault, Panic Attacks, Partial amnesia, Possession, Repressed Memories, Unreliable Narrator, and [spoilers] their [spoilers], and dream his green, can't believe i forgot to put those as tags smh, dreamons aren't evil exactly, everyone on the smp needs therapy like goddamn, kind of, let ghostbur have his blue, morally grey everyone, no beta we die like fucking dream in this fucking fic, they just have very different thought processes than humans, written before jan 20
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightstorm9/pseuds/Flightstorm9
Summary: “Oh my god,” a voice says behind him, and it’s thick, filled with something like horror, and he doesn’t - he really doesn’t want to turn, but he does it anyway, because - well - he doesn’t know, honestly. He’s curious, maybe, as to what could cause such a terrified, visceral tone - oh. Oh, wait, there are people. Lots of people. Looking at him, with wide eyes and horror and - and anger? guilt? fear? - and he feels the network churn and pulse, beneath him, uneasily responding to the somersaulting of his gut--please don’t-“Dream?” Someone else says, and that voice feels familiar - so close, a name on the tip of his tongue butnot, and it’s all sofrustrating. “Wait - is that -Dream?!”“...who’s Dream?”-"he was an angel craving chaos, they were a demon seeking peace;and in the end there were none, but a toxic cure called codependency."-Dream won. He always won, no matter the challenge, the obstacle.And so Dream came home with trophies. Medals. Congratulations.And then one day Dream came home with victory, but also with something else in him - and was never the same again.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Luke | Punz, Clay | Dream & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sam | Awesamdude, Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) & Everyone
Comments: 140
Kudos: 941





	1. pineapples are in my head (got nobody 'cause i'm brain dead)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“he remembers being lost, being raw, being unreasonably angry - hurting, hating, something else. something other._  
>    
> _he shouldn’t have gone._
> 
> _moreover, he shouldn’t have come back.”_
> 
> (chapter title from _pork soda_ by the glass animals)  
> 

He remembers - faces, maybe.

Not eyes, but he remembers the smooth curve of porcelain, a heavy weight in his hands, now on his face. Comforting, except not really. Something like - glasses? Goggles? A strip of white cloth - a headband - arms slung around his shoulders, color and fire, laughter on the wind, being-

-happy? Happy.

Once. Maybe.

He’s not really sure anymore, but… 

...once upon a time. What a fairytale thing, a phrase of cliche, except it wasn’t, was it? Because once upon a time there was a world of peace, and once upon a time there was a nation that just wanted to be free, and once upon a time there was a tyrant that shattered it all.

Once upon a time, there was…

...there was…

...he can’t remember what he was thinking.

...whatever - it doesn’t matter, anyways.

He tries to focus on the present, instead, but it’s like trying to return to the land of living when he’s very, very, dead - nearly impossible, evidently. He shuts his eyes and there are fragments, pieced shards, faltering threads of recollection, of better times - there's a flutter of something in him, a well of warmth, rising and spreading, burning starkly against the natural chill permeating through his flesh to his blood to his bones. And he remembers - what again? Does he?

(there is a mirror, shattered and cracked beyond repair, a distorted smiley face grinning back at him, jagged ~~and **red**~~ )

Everything is cold and heavy and dark and it presses down, presses in; he gasps against the weight of the world on his chest, choking him. It’s a weak thing, a connection just a fine thread, a sole fiber - but it burns where it touches him, wraps around him, sinks hooks into his sides and he’s drowning in it, his own skin simultaneously too big and too small for him, marred with marks that will never leave.

(like the scars dappling his face, twisted and snaking, like the weight of porcelain and pretend; insurmountable)

He jerks away from the teeth in him, twists upright and floats away from the ground - thick and blood-spattered, rust and metal and scarlet looming all around him. There’s black, too - obsidian walls, thick and looming, and he doesn’t know what it all means but it feels - wrong? Wrong. It feels wrong, he shouldn’t be here, where is he? He doesn’t know, doesn’t remember - but he’s _here,_ caged within something horrible, something that shouldn’t be meant to hold a living creature and yet was supposed to. Yet _did._ A ~~nd in the end t h e **y**~~

~~(dreams and nightmares, dripping blood, a sword held out, hands on shoulders)~~

He shuts his eyes against the red pooling in his mind and tries to think of the green again instead, bright against the poison in him. Like sitting back high on hills of windswept grass, looking over the world that ~~t~~ he ~~y~~ built with something like pride - like adventuring through hearth and hell, heat against golden boots and a sword in his hands, strength in loyalty by his sides ~~kill them betray all, dethroning, relief and pain and horror and **chaos** ~~and control-

~~like the rush power gives, don’t you see **d̵̙̣̾̂͂r̴͈͗̐e̷̗͝ȧ̴̠̖m̷̞̌̎̌,** no one can hurt us **now**~~

He turns away from the rotting husk in the corner of the room, the air filled with the acrid stench of raw magic and blood and rot ~~and ender~~. It’s a familiar smell, he thinks - maybe? Maybe? Is it? He doesn’t remember - doesn’t know - but he turns away, reaches out, and presses his hands to the - very solid, very corporeal - wall, no doors, no nothing - and he closes his eyes and connects and rejoins, rejoices, _becomes._

Outside, through layers of obsidian and blackstone and nether brick and iron bars there is - a world, bustling and happy, and he can _feel_ it - life and nature, roots winding deep beneath, pulsing with a power that is all his own at the same time it isn’t at all. It's a tangling web of awareness greater than ~~even them,~~ a network almost sentient in nature, and he takes it in his heart and takes it in his hands, careful.

In an instant he is there, too - it’s a part of him and he’s a part of it, and he can’t tell anymore where he begins and this world ends. It whispers secrets into his ears, says _your friends are happier without you, your friends don’t need you, they’ve never needed you. they do ~~n’t need a~~_ ~~_liar._~~

(And he can feel it’s very true.)

He can’t help the - desperation? Longing? Nostalgia? - that wells in him anyways - and then, before he knows what he’s doing - he’s sifting, seeking, searching - color - _there_ , a familiar feeling he can’t quite place ~~warm~~ ~~loved~~ ~~friend~~. A rabbit blinks open green eyes innocently a few feet away - fire friend is there too, he realizes with a start, and goggles ~~george~~ and headband ~~pandas~~ are talking together, laughing together without him, sitting under the shade of a tree and it makes that indescribable warmth swell in him again - but there’s a bitterness, too, a lingering sadness that tingles through, sweeps over and contaminates the happy scene - happy? Was he? Is he?

~~they never really needed you, **huh?**~~

It hurts to look for some reason, an indistinct flutter of _something_ in his chest that twists and chokes and trembles, weightless and unfathomable, so he leaves the rabbit’s body and rematerializes outside of the prison walls, back in his human form, separate from the world - his world? Was it his? _Is_ it his? - once again.

~~(you could take my form, you know it’s more **durable** )~~

_(shut up i don't need_ shit)

It's a lie, but he pretends.

He wanders for a little while, floats through the lush fields and tries to not think about the red rotting in his mind - it’s easier to stare at the waving green of the grass, bright in the sunlight, and he can’t help the - longing? Nostalgia? Sadness? - that rises in him, a feeling he doesn’t quite know the name of and doesn’t quite _want_ to know the name of.

He’s dead, isn’t he?

He isn’t sure how he knows that, but he maybe remembers - dying? Clawing at obsidian until his nails were broken and bloody, ragged breaths - the echoing throb of repeatedly bashing his skull into the wall, _get it off get it off I don’t want it I don’t want to be like this anymore,_ pain, overwhelmingly numb - and then the weird blankness of falling asleep, except forever. He thinks he remembers walls pressing in, the feeling of _trapped trapped_ ** _no_** **_chaos_** _no control_ and - screaming - shouting? Aren’t those two the same thing? Maybe. He doesn’t remember.

...he doesn’t _want_ to remember.

(Red sloshes lazily at the back of his mind. Waiting.)

And then he feels like he’s _choking,_ he can’t breathe, wires wrapping around his throat. Suddenly the weight of his mask is so heavy he stutters through the air, edges blurring as his ethereal weightlessness slams into being all at once, drops abruptly like a stone to the ground with a cry and reaches up, grabs at the uncaring, smirking thing in a futile attempt to - _get it off, get it away, trapped trapped trapped -_ breath he doesn’t need comes in ragged pants and he claws at the uncaring smile, mockingly painted, doesn’t dare think but - he feels the world rock beneath his feet, shudder and the red spills in, creeping and sticky and poisonous, muffles his cries and the ~~n - oh, how pitiful. He’d always been **weak.** ****~~

~~They blink open their eyes, feeling the world hum, all beneath their command, against their back. They’re lying face-up in the grass, the trees rustling in the wind, the world around them so bright and damn _cheerful_ they’re forced to squint. They scowl at it all, sit up and rub their head, running a hand down the front of their mask to check for any cracks or fissures and-~~

_A blinding pain rips through him and he gasps in a breath he doesn’t need, he’s dead, he’s a ghost, how are they still controlling him? Why haven’t they gone - why haven’t they left him, yet? It doesn’t make sense - he thought he’d be_ free-

The red sinks, simmers down, bubbling and restless, and he tries to calm himself by focusing on the artificial rise and fall of his chest instead. It’s no longer involuntary - he’s dead, after all, and he has to really focus to breathe - but it gets his mind off the feeling of _no control no control_ that’s there, hissing sibilant in his ears and draping itself over his spine, making itself at home. Grinning, with too many teeth and a sentience he hates, doesn’t want, except it’s pointless to hate a monster when they can’t hate you back. _(there’s no satisfaction to it.)_

Every part of him hurts, with the distinct numb tingle like pins-and-needles poking into his spine and worthless soul, and he shuts his eyes and very consciously doesn’t remember. He tries to feel the world around him instead - his world? It feels weird calling it his world, even if ~~they’re~~ he’s the one who built it - it’s more ~~their~~ land than his, the frothing distance in his mind, a chasm cutting deep. Like a shiver down the back of his neck, an omnipresent sensation of unease that hangs. Waiting.

...what is he doing, again?

He sighs, again artificial, sits up. His world blurs briefly, and he feels a tug in his chest - towards a center he can’t identify, a _home_ that doesn’t exist on this plane. Towards a portal of many eyes peering, dark and malicious; ender and magic oozing, thick and controlling. A sky, a void - of endless stars spanning infinity, purple and green and endless black, an altar formed of unbreakable bedrock at the center of it all. The center of the universe, some might call it - the end of all ends.

His beginning. His undoing.

(It starts, as always, in the End. An irony he can never escape - the fault is in himself, not in his stars, as much as he longs it to be so.)

He hates control. ~~He loves it.~~

It’s so _wrong_ that his sight spins, and once he rights himself again he realizes he’s floating again.

He’s flying.

(he doesn’t know where.)

-

Night falls, and with it comes a hushed quiet over the surface of ~~their~~ \- his - world. Beneath, in the energy that rolls in calm currents, the network hums, never asleep - despite it being almost alive, in its own, almost-sentient, way.

He doesn’t remember sleeping when he was alive. Maybe periods of blankness when they took from him, memory gaps and gaping voids of thought he can never quite fill - but it’s distant, faint, tinged with unrest and displeasure, nothing close to the sleep he’s always craved. 

~~(and n̶̦̿i̴̗͊̀g̷͉̞̓͘h̴̟̊t̷̨̘͗m̵ͅa̸͇̓r̶̦̯̿́e̴̖̫̍̓s̶̢̺̓ he could never shake)~~

He doesn’t fully remember dying, just remembers that it wasn’t peaceful - the life in him, pulled and ripped and _splintered_ away, screaming and howling and kicking and biting in him, desperate to remain but desperate, too, to depart - and he remembers - doesn’t remember - dying.

…maybe? It’s all foggy and floaty, he can’t tell.

(At least he can’t remember the pain - one thing he’s glad for. Numb, maybe, but not-)

~~pain~~

~~it hurts it hurts it hurts go away go away~~

It's such a childish thing, to be afraid of pain. At least now - now that he's - he's dead, he won’t have to - to - t-to- 

-he's not going to think about it.

(It's such a childish thing, too, to ignore his problems, but - well. He'd never claimed to be brave.)

He wanders through the darkness of the woods, mobs briefly pausing upon sensing his presence but ultimately leaving him alone, the devil in him too dangerous for them to risk angering. It’s telling, how much of a monster he is, that the other monsters all leave him alone - ha. Ha, ha, ha. It feels like some sick joke, like something he should laugh at.

(is he going insane? oh, he's going insane.

somehow, he'd always thought that it'd be more... peaceful, to go insane. shows what he knows.)

...should he laugh? Laughing’s good, right? He remembers, vaguely, laughing when L’manberg was destroyed, laughing when it was destroyed again, and _again,_ and _again_ \- he remembers being _ecstatic_. Remembers the _euphoria_ of giving in, crossing the line, however briefly - however severe the consequences were.

_(he remembers regretting once he had a chance to. remembers the relief of being locked away, that-)_

Laughter's the best medicine, maybe, and he's not sure where he heard that from but - it's not, it can't be, he doesn't remember-

He remembers laughing - wheezing? His friend - who? Goggles? Color? He can’t remember their name, it’s just beyond his reach, it’s _so frustrating -_ had always called him a tea kettle. What was a tea kettle? He remembers being - being happy - maybe? Hopeful? Happy? What’s the difference, again? - when a boy and the - the fox? He thinks it was a fox, a fox man - when they approached him - offered to ~~kill~~ exorcise him - remembers the weightlessness, the peacefulness-

 ~~ **-red red red-**~~ green ~~? **-red red red red red red-**~~

-and then, and then, and _then._ Waking up, the dawning horror - the terms, he'd broken the _terms_. The slow-creeping realization that it's _never,_ never _ever_ that easy. Of looking down and reaching, registering finally that - the end never leaves you. Never, ever - an exorcism only does so much. Can do so much.

He remembers killing dragons. He remembers laughing, with his ~~friends~~ at his side, as he won world records - championships - manhunts. He remembers not regretting, because he never got a chance to, and when he did - he just, he just didn't. Why didn't he?

He wishes, now, that he did.

-

He floats aimlessly through the darkness of the woods at night, dark against the moonlight. He thinks he remembers - vaguely - another ghost in this world? He doesn’t know, can’t recall their name or face, but they emitted light and warmth despite being dead. He thinks.

 _He_ doesn't emit light or warmth - at least, not currently. Rather, he meanders purposelessly through the air, absorbs the light like a sponge soaking up water, emits cold and dark like a hallowed figure of death. Ghosts of legends do that, right? Does that mean he’s a good ghost? He hopes so. It’s good to be good, right? Right?

**_~~right?!~~_ **

The thoughts burn in him, relentless, but he ignores them - he thinks he’s ignoring them, at least. Well, he’s _trying._ Is that good enough? He thinks so. He hopes so.

He doesn’t know. It’s terrifying not knowing.

~~when you were alive, you knew **everything**~~

He doesn’t remember, doesn’t want to, but the words come to mind regardless - _no rest for the wicked,_ mocking laughter, and he’d been wicked, hadn’t he? He’d been bad. He’d been a bad person.

He’d been a really, really bad person.

_(he remembers being lost, being raw, being unreasonably angry - hurting, hating, something else. something other._

_he shouldn’t have gone._

_moreover, he shouldn’t have come back._

_not with_ **_them_** _-)_

He pauses, tries to think back. What _does_ he remember, other than ~~hurt~~ ~~pain~~ ~~anger~~ ~~stopstopstop~~ goggles and headbands? Vague faces, perhaps - slaying dragons, winning records and championships, winning, always winning - and, he thinks, losing, too. Pink hair and a pig’s skull, a royal cape and _blood for the blood god_ and the deafening _crack_ of his mask shattering under the blow of a sword. Splinters and sunlight assaulting his eyes. Bright.

He doesn’t remember anything of that day after the mask breaking. Not really.

He thinks - building. Creating, laughing, exploring - a world of his own, people by his side that he can’t remember - _it’s so frustrating, god_ \- and something like a new, fragile hope. He’d never settled before, then, but - maybe?

But he remembers - a boy, he can’t remember anything else. Red, a lot of red, the boy brought out the red in him, it made him ~~**them** so ~~**~~angry.~~ ** that was ~~their world, how **dare** that boy disrupt the peace. he had to **pay.**~~

 ~~ _(_ **_t̵̠̞̓ͅo̴͈͔͒̌͑m̸̪̹̆͋͊m̸̝̜̓̅͑y̵̢̠͍̆͋_ ** ~~ _~~)~~ _

He doesn’t remember, just - red?

_(he remembers a time before even then, a town that went mad, a place that wasn’t meant to be)_

He thinks - a van. A book _(torn pages, “independence, or death”)_. A crown - a traitor. A nation, maybe? Is that what it’s called? Faces, people shouting. Angry. Very angry at him. Always at him. Why was everyone so angry? It was his ~~**their** world, they ~~ran ~~their pathetic lives, they~~ should b ~~e goddamn **grateful** that they had let them even be **there.**~~

...it was scary.

He remembers being scared. Maybe? He remembers needing control, control meant ~~they’d be safe,~~ _he’d_ be safe - but also ~~the red in him longing for chaos~~ \- and blood, blood was red, right? A bow, in his hands. Looking down. Tracing the curves.

Arrows raining from the sky, death in droves, kill them all. ~~no mercy. **white** **flags**.~~

A duel, in the dead of night. A disk, glittering. A deal, made and sealed.

He remembers a rippling flag, but he can’t recall the colors anymore. 

~~a minecart bearing down on him, rattling against the tracks, eyes wide and terrified and **red** screeching up an unholy storm - him moving, trying to, _please let me go_ -~~

~~-they wouldn’t let him, they never did.~~

Horns? Curved and glittering, horizontally-slit pupils, evil eyes. Like a - a - what? A goat? He thinks? Maybe, maybe. Shouting and yelling, the air thick with fear and despair, screaming. Horror, fear, something - something else. Something worse. Wrong.

~~he remembers hands that aren’t his handing over a stack of TNT, a smile shared between two diseased men. poisoned, because-~~

~~one had~~ ~~everything left to lose. the other, nothing at all.~~

An - an alliance, maybe. That’s the word, right? Long nights pacing and turning, wondering over something he can’t remember now. He thinks he’d been mad, maybe. Sad? Disappointed.

There’s another word, something like ~~guilt~~ ~~frustration~~ ~~regret~~ on his tongue, something he can’t remember for the life (or death) of him.

He remembers white flags. Bottles. The stench of something ugly, poisonous, in the air - neither of ~~them~~ could stand it. A stage. Fireworks, glorious in the sky. Gorgeous. He remembers watching in awe at the display, red and blue and white ~~and freedom, **anarchy**.~~

The world lighting up, the earth rocking beneath his feet, smoke and shrapnel. Gold and red fire. Death. Destruction.

chaos.

A heartbeat, stuttering and skipping. He felt it, too - a final death, taken in the heat of the moment and the held breath of karma and the poison of whiskey, exhaled, at last. ~~they can’t say they were sad to see Schlatt go.~~

Wings - sleek and black and spanning wide. A god - a god? A sword. He remembers that, too - the network does, at least. This world - ~~their world~~ \- will always remember the blood spilled on their grounds.

He remembers - that bo ~~y, again. he made them so goddamn **angry** . just **-** the **gall** of the child, to be there, to take what was **theirs** and twist it against them - their host loved that damn horse. their host loved them all. their host was a **fool**.~~

~~their host was going to get the both of them **killed.**~~

~~**_so they took control._ ** ~~

...he doesn’t remember anything else, after that. 

He doesn’t remember. He _won’t -_ ~~them twisting the puppet strings until he choked on them, destroying and killing and blowing up and just~~ \- “ _bye l’manberg, bye l’manberg-”_

(he’d been so _happy._ he’d been such a _monster._

and for what, even, in the end? what did they even _accomplish_ , in the end?

~~you don’t understand i was protecting you~~

~~i was protecting us~~

~~i was protecting them~~

~~i didn’t mean **-** i didn’t mean to **-** i didn’t know;~~

~~i didn’t know that they’d do that~~

~~i didn’t think~~

~~i didn’t~~

What did they even accomplish, other than hurting and killing and _destroying -_ all just to end up locked away, alone in a cell, rotting and decaying and just - why were they even still here, in his body? Why hadn’t they left? He’d been trapped in that cell, all alone, for who knows how long - they could’ve left him to rot. They still _can_ leave him to rot.

Why haven’t they?

What did they _want_ from him?

_what do you want from me?!_

~~i don’t know~~

_you fucking liar_ )

He doesn’t - he doesn’t remember. He can’t - he can’t. It’s - it’s not there, he’s just… he’s not _them._ He doesn’t want to be. He’s never wanted to be, but… 

(why can’t you just let me go?

 ~~i’m sorry~~ )

They’re really not, he knows. The red in him is almost absolutely remorseless, only wanting chaos and death and - and - and-

-and… he… 

...what was his name again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Y’all probably know what’s going on already lmao, you’re smart people
> 
> Wanted to try my hand at a ghost!dream fic. Thought it’d be fun, plus i need more practice with angst anyways. Also the dream/nightmare headcanon is always interesting to play with, possession is always cool. This chapter was mostly exposition/introduction - next chapter will have a lot more reaction/interaction, other characters, etc.
> 
> Please know I do not ship any CCs, and there will be no shipping in this fic, only platonic relationships. They are real people with real thoughts and feelings and I acknowledge that; if any of them express discomfort with people writing fanfics about them this will be taken down immediately. The characters in this fic are their personas played in the Dream SMP only, with some headcanons/hot takes from me based on interpretations/creative liberties I’m taking. I’m writing this because I enjoy and appreciate their content, not because I hate it. 
> 
> I do not support canon smp!dream manipulation, this is written just for fun and also because i’m a simp lol
> 
> A few notes: ghost!dream remembers a lot more than wilbur partially because of nightmare, whose memory was unaffected by death, and also because i personally hc that every ghost is a little different in what they remember, depending on the life they’ve led. 
> 
> i also wrote all of this before today's (jan 20's) stream, so... yeah, just be warned for mild canon divergence at some points, probably. feel free to tell me if i horribly mess up someone's characterization or something else, too- feedback's always nice. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. hey just tell me how (it's not like i care now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream’s brows furrow under his mask, still struggling to - to - “Tommy,” he says suddenly, lighting up in realization - not noticing how the aforementioned boy jerks back, jaw gaping, eyes wide with something like _terror_ \- “You’re - you’re Tommy, right? You-” he shuts his eyes behind his mask, blank and cruel and smiling, and tries to think past the swirling red in him, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of distress - love - hatred - _fear_ \- blurts without thinking aloud, “you’re the one that Night hates-” and as he’s saying it he remembers, now, the familiar snarl of them constant at the back of his mind whenever Tomathy was around, a caged creature, always ranting about ~~ _i hate him i hate him i’m going to kill him i’m going to **destroy** him-_~~
> 
> He doesn’t see how Tommy - Tomathy? no, Tommy - cringes back at the word _hate._
> 
> (or: a confrontation occurs.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... jan 20, huh  
>   
> Anyways, a lot of stuff that happened super recently in canon, like glattbur and the whole prison arc, i’m not up to date with because i’ve been writing instead of watching streams. just pretend glattbur doesn’t exist in this fic lmao, sorry canon but i have to step on you a lil. just a lil.  
>   
> ...okay, a lot admittedly, but who likes canon anyways. pfft watch me ignore it, it’s a flippin art form by this point  
>   
> (chapter title is from the Lost One’s Weeping)  
> 

It’s evening. He tilts his head and watches, entranced, as the dusk glides in glowing beams across the forest earth and foliage. This world’s network hums, content, beneath him; he’s content too, for once. Or at least - something close. Something - near, almost. Not quite, but - but. Almost.

Almost…

He wouldn’t call it peace, because he doesn’t know what peace is like - but he knows _this,_ this feeling of - floating, not just literally but metaphorically as well, and - well.

Let the dead rest in peace - he can’t remember where he heard that before - but there is no peace, is there? 

There's...

There’s restless nights and pacing feet. Watching, waiting, wandering. Lost and free, yet at the same time more trapped than ever before.

It’s like - limbo, almost, maybe you'd call it. He’s - stuck, somewhere between dead and alive, between the blurry lines of breathing and heart unbeating. Schrödinger's dream, you could call it - or maybe Schrödinger's nightmare, he can’t tell. He can’t tell a lot of things, these days.

(like why his mind jumped to _dream_ and ~~_nightmare_~~ , because he can’t remember what those words _mean_ )

And it’s all so _strange_ , a hurricane sweeping away whatever vague memories he tries to reach out to touch and view or come across - or perhaps it’s merely a gentle breeze, and he’s overreacting. Being overemotional, whatever that means. He wouldn’t put it past himself, to be something he doesn’t remember he’s not-

Ghosts are formed of raw magic, anyways; they’re essentially soul given body, meant to imitate alive human physiology and failing halfway except also succeeding fully, and magic - especially _soul_ magic, raw and pure and ever so _tainted_ \- is known to be quite volatile.

He thinks. He doesn’t quite remember, exactly, how he knows this - any of this.

And it’s so _easy_ to forget.

...it’s easy to be afraid. He remembers being afraid, from the loss of control and the chaos they'd craved - but in chaos, no one had control, did they? It had been easier, with chaos. It had been…

...what? 

Better?

(Not that it matters, anyways, with how much good it did in the end.)

He hovers, lingering, running his hand through the grass and feeling the blades bend before his fingers - it’s so peaceful, so quiet. He doesn’t remember - He’s never known anything like it.

It’s so _serene,_ so still, and he marvels at it all, floating in place, just… watching.

~~(they observe, now, with a strange fascination that they can’t ever seem to shake, because it’s all so _unnatural_ seeing their host like this. so calm. so quiet. so _still_ . before, when their host was alive, he could never stay unmoving for long - he’d been all buzzing, restless energy; fidgeting hands and twitching impatience. it had been one of the reasons they’d latched onto _him_ as opposed to all those other travelers, because they _knew,_ seeing him - _this one_ was different, he was looking for something greater than just _himself,_ or something as foolish as hearth or home. greener pastures, gilded glory. they could _give_ him that. he could give them what _they_ wanted, too. ~~

~~it had been for both their benefit.~~

~~why couldn’t he just **see** _?_ ) ~~

He frowns, feeling the red in his pores hiss and coil, restless for a reason even they can’t seem to place. It’s weird, because the hairs on the back of his neck go up and something - _something_ pings through the network, something behi- something around - something - no - footsteps maybe, a warning - wait - is that?

-is that - oh _no-_

-a stab of panic goes through him at the realization - no, no no no no _no_ , he’s not _ready-_

“Oh my god,” a voice says behind him, and it’s thick, filled with something like horror, and he doesn’t - he really doesn’t want to turn, but he does it anyway, because - well - he doesn’t know, honestly. He’s curious, maybe, as to what could cause such a terrified, visceral tone - oh. Oh, wait, there are people. Lots of people. Looking at him, with wide eyes and horror and - and what? - anger? guilt? fear? _-_ and he feels the network churn and pulse, beneath him, uneasily responding to the somersaulting of his gut-

_-please don’t-_

“Dream?” Someone else says, and that voice feels familiar - so close, a name on the tip of his tongue but _not_ , and it’s all so _frustrating_ . “Wait - is that - _Dream?!”_

“...who’s Dream?” The words are sour in his mouth.

He knows exactly who _Dream_ is, what he’s - he’d - they’ve - done. But - he’s not Dream, right? Maybe - maybe once, but not - ~~they~~ said - ~~they always~~ said-

 ~~you’re not **d̴̺̠͌r̵̻͆̐ͅė̸̘̣͐a̸̱̓m̷̠͊** ~~ , says the poison in him, suddenly _furious_ , enraged for no discernable reason, frothing and thrashing - red and angry and ~~_re_ **_d_ ** \- you’re **nothing.** ~~

And he doesn’t know what it is, the sudden lurch-drop-twist of his gut, what it all means, but he knows - it’s true, it’s always been. ~~they’ve never lied to him, they wouldn’t, they swear~~

(but they have, and they both know it) 

“Dream,” someone says, another person - “how - what - how did you die?!”

And then-

(black walls, mean and looming and everything he’d meant for himself in the end, devouring him, just like he’d always hated, like he’d always hoped would _happen)_

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says blankly, falsely, and then just to drive the point home - “who’re you guys, anyway?”

(and he’s never been all that great of an actor, but maybe just this once, he can _pretend_ )

“Dream?” another voice says, this one’s _so familiar,_ so close - like, what is it? Color. Glasses. Goggles? His brain flutters, foggy, and he feels like he could reach out and grab the name from the deepest, closest vestiges of his ruined memories, stolen and scattered, because it’s so far, but so _close_ \- except he can’t, it’s like trying to get a hold of vapor. He doesn’t know - he doesn’t - he didn’t-

-he can’t, ~~they can’t .~~

But he has to, he _has_ to.

“Oh my god,” whispers somebody. He tries to look in their direction and - _something_ lights up in his neural pathways, a dim flicker of recognition he can’t fully place, but he _knew_ this person, he _did -_ their face isn’t human, is mottled grey and green and just being near them makes the static all along his arms raise and crackle, drawn to the man with a golden crown and a not-human face. _creeper hybrid,_ his mind supplies, and he clings onto the thought even if he can’t remember - won’t remember - their name.

The red sneers in him, bitter and furious, at the back of his mind ~~\- s̴̥͒a̶̱̋m̸̟͌ had been one of their best pawns, their most valuable pieces, with plenty of resources and a good repertoire in redstone - and then they’d **betrayed** them, had turned their back like it all meant nothing - thrown them into that prison and left them to **rot** \- that could **not** be forgiven-~~

~~how dare they. how dare they how dare they he hates them he hates them he **hates** them all of them ~~

~~(why did they why did they he trusted them he controlled them he protected them. he loved them. he almost, almost-~~

~~isn’t that what love _is?)_~~

“He can’t remember,” he thinks he hears one of them whisper, something like awed _realization_ mixed with uneasy, dreading, trepidation - and it just makes him feel all so much worse, because he _does_ remember. Bits and pieces and broken parts, but he _does -_ no matter how fragmented they are, brief surges of emotions and feelings and thoughts and images that don’t fit together, don't click right, that he doesn’t recall having but he _knows_ he had. Because he had been just that bad of a person, apparently.

Creeper Hybrid steps forward, their movements blurred with hesitation yet determined, rigid and firm and faltering all in one. “ _I_ \- Dream, you’re, uh, Dream. I’m… I’m Sam. Do you… uh, do you remember me?”

~~how could i how could i you hurt me you hurt me you hate me~~

“...no,” Dream - his name’s _Dream,_ he’s not - he isn’t - he’s not n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ _-_ says, his faltering tone helping his case for once. His eyes flicker from the newly-dubbed Sam to the people behind him, who are staring unabashedly - “what are you looking at?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Several flinch away at his sudden addressal of them, almost as if struck; he can’t help but shrink away at their blatant display of their fear of him. They’re all _still staring_ and it makes the red in ~~them~~ itch - ~~they’re a Dreamon after all, of ender and End and eyes, and everyone knows you should never look a creature of End in the eyes.~~

~~you should never look at them at _all_. ~~

“Wha-wh-why - h- _ha?!_ \- don’t you remember _anything?_ ” shouts a disbelieving voice from the crowd, above the wall of blurred faces and harsh, remaining, whispers. A leader, maybe ~~a child~~. “Like, anything? At all? Y-you don’t - you don’t remember manipula - you don’t remember hur-” the voice falls ~~uncharacteristically~~ silent, and Dream turns in its direction, blinking underneath the mask suffocating him, tries to think of the voice and where he’s heard it before.

(It’s like trying to reach through mud and quicksand, so painfully slow the thoughts are in coming to him, the searching for _that voice)_

(the red in him roaring, angry)

~~let me **kill** him i **hate** him he deserves to **die** ~~

Dream’s brows furrow under his mask, still struggling to - to - “Tommy,” he says suddenly, lighting up in realization - not noticing how the aforementioned boy jerks back, jaw gaping, eyes wide with something like _terror -_ “You’re - you’re Tommy, right? You-” he shuts his eyes behind his mask, blank and cruel and smiling, and tries to think past the swirling red in him, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of distress - love - hatred - _fear -_ blurts without thinking aloud, “you’re the one that Night hates-” and as he’s saying it he remembers, now, the familiar snarl of them constant at the back of his mind whenever Tomathy was around, a caged creature, always ranting about how ~~_i hate him i hate him i’m going to kill him i’m going to_ ** _destroy_** _him-_~~

He doesn’t see how Tommy - Tomathy? no, Tommy - cringes back at the word _hate._

“Wait,” says someone - he glances towards the voice and sees black hair, furrowed eyes, a familiar fire in them - _fire, headband,_ ~~_hatred_ ~~ _-_ “Night? Who’s Night?”

Dream stares slowly, at first not registering the words and then internally panicking upon realizing what had been said - wait, what _he’d_ said, had he broken the - had he - oh _no -_ “Night?” he asks dumbly, just to stall for time, like he doesn’t know what he’s saying ~~like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s **done**~~ **.** He flounders for a second, doesn’t know what to say so just parrots fire’s words back at him - “who’s Night?”

“That’s what I’m asking _you,”_ fire snaps, voice raising in frustration - but then color is stepping forward and dragging fire back, hissing something in his ears that Dream can’t hear from where he floats - but ~~_they_ can, their world can. ~~

~~“Sapnap, he’s like Ghostbur, he doesn’t know anything,” tries George - “we shouldn’t - we can’t-”~~

~~“He knows _something,_ George,” Sapnap snarls, but it’s weak and almost - hopeful, even as it is desperate and aching, almost grieving. “He’s - he’s never mentioned a _Night_ to us before, what does that even _mean-”_ ~~

~~“I don’t know,” George says, quietly, and then - I just don’t _get_ it,” he grits out, frustrated - “he was in the - Quackity said they’d put him in the _prison,_ he shouldn’t - he shouldn’t have been able to - even if he had _died,_ he shouldn’t have been able to get _out -_ even as a - a _ghost-”_ ~~

~~and n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ cringes back, almost, because they _know_ what they are. ~~

“Dream,” says Sam, and Dream turns his attention back on them and stares blankly, expectantly, behind his mask. He pretends not to notice the resulting flinch _(what did he do god_ _what did ~~they~~ _do). “Do you... do you know anybody else here?”

Dream frowns at the weird question but glances back at the faces staring anyways. “Know them? Like… names?” Staring at certain people makes _something_ twitch at the back of his brain, brief flares of recognition that die quickly, jagged and broken and crumbling as rapidly as they rise into being. Disjointed images, flashes, feelings - but not, not _memories,_ nothing so concrete or sophisticated. So _whole._

And it’s just - it’s so, so-

-so _frustrating._

So _frustrating,_ because, he - he just - he feels so, so _fractured_ , staring out at these people, with their lives so _together_ and their souls so _intact,_ without having to worry about a demon inside of them driving them _mad._

With them _staring him in the face_ and taunting him with a togetherness he will _never have again._

Dream shoves away the resulting well of something like - _bitterness_ , in him - like the brittle bite of cold lonely nights and frost-faded skin, freezing his mask to his face - and _looks, reaches,_ tries to recognise. There’s color and fire, Sam of course, Tommy - a man with heterochromic green and red eyes watching warily, very obviously some sort of enderman halfbreed with the unnatural-brand magic radiating off him in waves - a boy that looks a little like Tommy except with darker hair and wearing green, Dream likes green, green is good, green is a ~~mostly~~ safe color, green tried to help him back then, tried to get the Dreamon in him _out_ \- there’s a man with a white hoodie and a gold chain with blond hair and blue eyes that evokes _something_ in his chest, a fox man wearing a jacket with-

-wait, a fox?

“Wait, you’re the fox man!” he says suddenly - an almost child-like excitement filling him at the prospect of actually _remembering_ someone, sort of, for once - the fox man cringes away, ears going flat and eyes squinting up like they’re expecting Dream to hit - to _hurt_ them - (he wouldn’t - he wouldn’t hurt them, right? he loved them, _right?) -_ “You’re the one who exorcised me!” 

The fox blinks, eyes going wide and tail uncurling, lashing nervously, ears perking slightly forwards - “Wait, what?” - caught off guard. Was that not a good memory? It had to be a good memory if he remembered it, right? That was how it worked for the other ghost in this world - the one he can’t remember - but, it wasn’t really a happy memory, was it? Tainted, perhaps, by the bitterness of giving up and giving out and giving in - but - but;

~~a wedding, i loved you, i controlled you, isn’t that what love _is_ ~~

“Yeah, I know you, you’re one of the ones who tried to kill Nigh-” Dream’s mouth snaps shut as he lurches back with a choked noise, the wires around his throat compressing and binding and _burning -_ the red in him _snarls_ with fanged teeth and fury, invisible claws shoving their way into his ribs and taking him apart - tearing him apart. Pushed too far, long ago. His vision goes white and blurry and splinters to black, to nightmares with rabid intent and talons, tearing - and then _red_ -

He falls _back_ , the sudden weightlessness of his ethereal visage in the mortal plane gone all at once, the floating feeling of _death -_ he twists and tumbles and _thumps_ to the ground with a grunt but recovers quickly, rolling to his feet - because he’s been alive a lot longer than he’s been dead, is used to obeying gravity as a fundamental law of the universe, even if he doesn’t remember much of it all. The darkness around him _burns_ , pressing in - his figure glitters and blurs a blinding green, lime and alluring, bright against the darkness of the pocket dimension around him. Instincts tingle, and he whirls at the feeling of a presence behind him - Night ripples there, glowing with a deep red aura, polluting. Poison.

He isn’t so much a _person_ as much as he is a _presence,_ an uncaring smile with blank dot eyes and dripping crimson vengeance, and-

Despite himself Dream can’t help but _hate._

 _What do you_ want,he spits, not so much _saying_ it as he is _thinking,_ hurling the poison-barbed words at the devil before him and hoping they’ll _hurt._ Because this is not the mortal plane, you cannot speak words without consequence here, where the mind translates thought and emotion and intent with all of its terrifying ease. And - he doesn’t remember a lot, sure, but he’s sure he couldn’t possibly ever forget feeling like _this,_ this howling fury tightening his chest to the point of collapse, this raging urge to lunge forward and punch kick scream _fight_. To _kill,_ because this _monster_ has made him do _so much shit_ and he _hates_ them, he hates it. He hates himself.

(He hates it because he _gets_ it, too, why they can’t let go.)

 ~~not part of the contract,~~ says - thinks? - the Dreamon - says n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ - ~~i have been lenient. too lenient. i should remind you-~~

 _I don’t need a damn_ reminder-

~~-you cannot speak my name.~~

Fuck _your name,_ Dream retorts, the green aura around him leaping higher like a neon flame - sizzling against the red and the dark all around him, all-encompassing. 

(He won’t admit he fears it.)

Night’s not-eyes flicker to his aura - twisting and angry, sharp and razor-edged, ready to fight the world and fight the dark and fight himself. But he can’t, because he _can’t._ It’s not - it’s not allowed, the _terms._

(He died - he died in the dark. He died alone, with poison in his mind and a disease in his bones, infecting.)

 _Just - just let me go,_ he says, and his green guard falls to a bare flicker, defeated - _please, just - why can’t you just_ leave?

(He knows they know, as well - probably better than he.)

n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ smiles a bleak smile - a smile he sees reflected every time he looks in the mirror, an unfaltering mask that simultaneously hides all of his inner turmoil and broadcasts it for all the world to see - and their own red spills like watercolor throughout the air; creeping, corrupting, a sickly tide. But there is despair there, too - he can feel it, soul-deep and aching, and it’s horrible because they are a _monster_ and yet still as human as he. 

and they ooze closer, pulsating with ugly breath, and they shouldn't be - they shouldn't feel so _alive_ but they are so. they're more alive than _him,_ and he thinks all this while they creep nearer and reach out, red on green and caressing, horrible and - get _aWAy fROM hi_ M-

~~why won’t you let us go home, then?~~

_-he recoils and their touch sears and shrivels and shivers on his skin_

_There is no_ us, he hisses, denying, even as he knows it isn’t true. _You come into my body and use me for yourself, you invade my world and earth and home, you control and manipulate and kill my_ friends _-_ **_you,_ ** _you are a stranger here, alright? You’re a fucking - you’re not - there is no_ us. _You shouldn’t even_ be _here. You’re not - you_ **_aren’t_ ** _me._

_You’ll never fucking be me._

...except they have been, for a long time, and they both know it.

~~then let me go.~~

_Never._

~~then tell me wHY.~~

They're both growing frustrated, here, ego and anger and bottled resentment and hate billowing and flaring and _clashing,_ and it's a dangerous place to be - within body, soul and mind. Within hurricane, warring.

 _Why_ **_what?!_ **

~~**“you broke the contract.”** ~~

He jerks back at the sudden _rage_ in Night’s tone - the _weight_ in those words, spoken _aloud -_ and the thing is, it’s _true._ They had a deal, a sort of mutual understanding - and Dream crossed the line. He always did, in the end, because he can’t learn any goddamn _self-control-_

_I didn’t think-_

He doesn’t remember what happens next - ~~the dark blurs around him, the red rotting and spreading, tangling, and it hooks roots deep within his green and he screams as it tears him apart from the inside out, and he’s consumed - they consume him - they don’t need him - their host was useless, anyways - ha. hahaha. they don’t need him. they never have. (they do. god, they do-)~~

~~and then they open their eyes, burning ruby red, behind painted lies. and smile with a mask that is all their own, because-~~

~~**_this is their body, now._ ** ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Ghost Dream has appeared!
> 
> Ghost Dream used n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹. It was super effective!
> 
> (:


	3. your mind can't sleep (when you let it starve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A piglin hybrid, tall and imposing with a crown and a cape, slings their bow back over their shoulders and grins at him, the perfect picture of idle strength. “Hey, ghost. What’re ya doing here, you’re gonna-” the smile melts off their face, replaced with slack-jawed shock, and some instinct in Dream can’t help but be proud that he managed to make the _Blood God,_ of all people, to gape- 
> 
> (how did he know that? how did he know who he _was-)_
> 
> “Dream? Wait - _Dream?”_ asks the piglin hybrid, with wide eyes and something like _vulnerability_ there in him, raw and bare, settling bone-deep in every line of his body, and it’s all so _unlike_ him that Dream can’t help but stare from where he’s sprawled in the cold, cold snow. And then a name rises to his lips, unbidden, and then-
> 
> “T-Techno?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for the start of this chapter right off the bat: minor body horror, mentions of implied disembowelment  
> other tws (mostly later in the chapter): disassociation, panic attacks, mild confrontation  
> it’s all fairly minor imo but be careful anyways, my sense of graphic is a little warped bc of all the fic i read 
> 
> (chapter title from _oblivion_ by dirty palm)

He wakes up to a migraine and a moonlit night sky, lying on the grass with his sides torn open and pooling lime green.

For a moment he can’t help but just - stare, because since when could ghosts bleed? As far as he remembers, they can’t - except they can, can’t they? He thinks - he’s _pretty sure -_ the other ghost on the server, the one he can’t remember the name of - they bled, too. They bled blue, glittering and pure.

He thinks.

Did they?

He doesn’t know - doesn’t remember. 

But he bleeds - he bleeds _green._

(And he can’t help but do nothing except just _stare_ for a long moment because maybe he’s not… maybe then he’s not totally rotten, inside.)

It takes a good few moments for his common sense to begin to kick in, although his normal self-preservation is strangely absent. (Then again, he’s dead, so he supposes there’s no use for it.) And that begs the question, then - why is he lying partially disemboweled in the middle of a grassy field in the first place? 

He searches for what he remembers last but all he can conjure up is red and black and shouting, the tenuous control he had over his own flesh and bone snapping - blurred faces, wide eyes and screaming and yelling and splattering blood, a cracked mask - and-

-a mask…

He reaches up and grasps blindly at his face, feels the once-smooth porcelain, now chipped and cracked and spiderwebbed-through, and he can’t help but wonder - can’t help the way his thoughts stray to the worst-case scenario-

(Night always finds a way to defy even the worst of his expectations, sink to new lows, he’s long since given up on predicting just how _horrible_ they can be _-_ )

He can’t help but trace the damages despite knowing what he’ll find, pressing ghostly fingers against the fissures and feeling, almost involuntarily - the magic laced there within unassuming ceramic, humming like a needle tripwire - potent and deadly and searing hot fire into his face. He can’t help but be glad for his lack of heartbeat, because he’s sure he would have stopped breathing right then and there.

Because that means - that means that they didn’t - he would have woken up, right? - but no, that’s never stopped them before-

And - that still doesn’t change the fact that _something_ happened, something the red in him must have - _no,_ he can’t - something pitiful escapes his throat before he can clamp down on it, a thoughtless, wounded noise, somewhere between a whimper and a keen - _what did they do,_ he can’t… he doesn’t know, he isn’t sure, it’s terrifying like this. The uncertainty and insecurity and he doesn’t know where he stands right now, in the eyes of others, and all he has to work with are pieces, shards, assumptions that will never hold water compared to reality, because reality is always, always _worse_.

Is that the right-? He can’t recall. He can’t - he needs-

He shuts his eyes against the scorching heat on his face and tries to reach out, or at least attempts to - for _answers_ , some sort of justification, some sort of _response_ \- _anything_ really, he’s not _picky,_ just - actually, wait, is that even a word? justification? he thinks it is, he can’t remember- 

~~_(“tommy get out, you’re exiled-”_ ~~

~~_“W-what?! What the fuck? Why? What happened? What_ justification _do you even - what the fuck? You’re just doing it for no goddamn reason, you just don’t like me, what did i-”_ ~~

~~_“you burned down george’s house-”_ ~~

~~_“You don’t give a_ ** _shit_** _about george!”_~~

~~_-they can’t lie, they really don’t.)_ ~~

-the red in his own mind gives no response, merely ripples idly, surface still and unbroken - uncaring, of his desperation-

Everything spins, his stomach somersaults, _what is happening-_

Is it really even his own mind, anymore? Is it _theirs,_ now?- 

(when was the last time his mind was _his?)_

-but. But then- 

a sort of strange calm washes over him - sweepingly numb, wiping all trace of higher thought from his mind. they are quiet in him - almost peaceful, for once. asleep, maybe. he - wait, he’s d̸͚͒͝r̶̠̀ẽ̷͉͑a̸̻̻̍͝m̵̫͗, right? - who told him that, again? - he sits up, frowns a little down at the shattered remains of his ribs throughout his torn-out chunks of flesh - watches as the green lifeblood smears on his torn hoodie and glows, dimly, against his pale, washed-out skin - it’s actually kind of pretty, that shade of lime - though it’s going to be a pain to clean, can ghosts even do laundry-?

-or, wait - deathblood, not lifeblood, he supposes, since none of it even matters. the injury is horrid, sure, ugly and gaping and clearly fatal, if he hadn’t been a ghost - but it doesn’t register, somehow.

he doesn’t feel any of it, other than a distant throbbing that still feels a thousand miles away. 

idly, he wonders why.

he stares for a while, until the night grows late and turns to dawn, then to day - further awareness comes in gradual stages, his thoughts trickle back to him, he doesn’t feel like he’s swimming through clouds that clutch at him like chasing vapors anymore-

Dream huffs out a sigh, shifts upright despite the fact that it shouldn’t be possible, he should be in _very debilitating pain right now -_ and floats upwards, broken legs leaving the ground and hovering above it. _(what was that?)_ He can’t stop _staring,_ at the way the blood - is it even blood if it’s green? - runs in glowing rivulets down his broken body and drips down to the puddle of lime green on the ground.

It looks… 

_(horrifying, disgusting, he’s a monster now, a_ real _one)_

...almost like vomit, but cleaner.

The absurd thought makes Dream roll his eyes behind his mask to himself, and he twists midair and begins to… move, idly flickering through the night while still being sure to float several feet above the ground. Even as he’s moving he can feel that his not-body is healing, righting itself and scabbing, scarring, over. It’s a strange feeling, to feel skin smooth back into place and his bones twist and snap into the correct position, not even without the aid of a healing potion - he heals a lot faster as a ghost, weirdly enough. 

Actually...

How did he even get hurt as a ghost, anyways?

Because that doesn’t - that doesn’t make sense. How did he even get - torn apart, just like that? The only way that injury could’ve been caused was by - by-

-by…

 _(the word is just on the edge of his mind, tiptoeing the tightrope between recollection and empty void, but he can’t - he doesn’t - the word doesn’t come, no matter how he reaches, how he calls, it never_ comes-)

~~_animal, creature, hybrid, monster,_ **_them_ ** ~~

…could the other ghost on the server get hurt? He doesn’t know, doesn’t remember.

There’s so _much_ he can’t _remember._

(-he’d _love_ to find out-)

...he wishes - he wishes. That he could - meet them, maybe, the other - the other - the other ghost, the other - one like him. Maybe. A little. He wishes he could ask them, ask them what it’s like, because he _doesn’t remember_ and it’s all so _hard,_ it’s all so _confusing -_ who knew being dead would be so _difficult,_ so exhausting. So - so _draining,_ even if - even if…

Dream glides to a halt midair, with the terrifying realization that - that - it’s so _weird,_ because he’s _dead_ but he feels almost - almost - well, at least right now. Right now, he feels so much more _-_ so much more _in control_ than he remembers ever being - more _alive_ than when he’d still been breathing, heart beating. When blood flowed freely through his veins, dripped red instead of green, when he’d been flesh and bone and still controlled and not the ethereal _thing_ he is now.

When he’d been…

( _human,_ but he hasn’t been human for a long, long time.)

And that - that says a lot, really, because all he remembers right now are splinters.

Dream drifts down, suddenly so very starkly aware of how the chilly dawn air bites into his exposed skin. Gripping, almost, and if he were still human and mortal and _alive_ there would be goosebumps prickling down his arms, everything would feel oh-so sharp and contrasting and wicked - but all he feels is numb, endless numb that creeps in the form of null cold down his sides and he half-expects to see his own breath, fogging out in the morning air, except - no, wait, he’s dead-

The world burns beneath him, his mask fire where his skin is cold.

(It’s good to know that at least - at least the magic still holds, when he’s dead.)

He twists around and cranes his neck at the earth beneath him, desperate for something else to focus on other than just the freezing dawn- now that he’s paying more attention, his body is throbbing weakly and his head is pounding and it all _really hurts,_ everything throbbing to a heartbeat that doesn’t exist, anymore, now. Beneath him hums the world, beckoning - it’s less of a conscious decision and more of an involuntary thought of safety, vanishing into the network and becoming one with it once again- nothing can harm him if he doesn’t have a physical body, after all. Not the cold, not the wild, not-

(he wishes.)

In the network the world is - weird, drifting as it is rushing by, simultaneously so fast and so slow in passing by it makes his head spin. Connecting is a strange process, too - he _is_ the world as the world is him, feels everything upon its surface and within its tunnels and mines and cities and towns - and it’s so _strange,_ the sudden starkness of his omnipresence, his ever-awareness, so widespread and godlike he feels full _fake_.

_( and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing- )_

He can feel the dull impact of footsteps against his earth, the citizens of his world walking through the streets - the weird almost-itch as the world’s stone ore is carefully picked away by tunnelling miners - the rushing way gales of wind brush and bow tree branches and rustle leaves-

it’s a lot, it really is, and Dream almost forgets what he’s - what was he doing?

He tries to remember, ultimately comes up with nothing after being distracted by a bubbling lava pool on the surface of his world, near a desert village that he probes through absentmindedly - the villagers are very busy and happy. Such simple, easy, lives - just farming, fishing, trading. If only he could be like them. And then he remembers - wait, what had he been…

Right - someone else. Someone...

He reaches, searching, for the other server ghost’s aura - he’d wanted… he’d desired for company, of similarity, of _someone like him_ \- and he wants it now, too - he thinks? He isn’t sure - maybe he shouldn’t - but he has to, right? It’s weird, he doesn’t know, pulled between two polar extremes of _yes_ and _no_ and it grates at something in him that doesn’t want to _choose,_ has never wanted to choose but has had all his choices made for him. And it’s all - melding, his thoughts too far apart to come back together but too close to separate apart - it swims and blurs into a confusing whirl that twists up the network and then there’s - that, that unnameable desperation that _burns_ in him, hot and fierce, and in doing so the network burns all around him as well, suffocating-

-and suddenly it’s not a safe place anymore, because he’s trapped, he’s trapped. He’s _stuck,_ not in a dark dark room where he can’t feel anything but his own heartbeat, pounding - but in a rush of color and noise and static song, of garbled awareness so much greater than himself, and he’s _drowning_ in it - his thoughts lost in the _a̴̢̎ị̷́u̴̟͆h̶̹̋g̶̼̈́ő̴̡u̶͓͋ḯ̸̢y̶̬͝_ of the screaming around him - the network sears even hotter with his distress, choking him with his own dissonance and the chaos, the _discord_ of it all makes something twist in him, awaken and seep red. And it all makes him panic more because _nononononono-_

He tumbles out of the network and crashes into the dirt next to a large river with a choked cry, ice freezing into his skin and burning frostfire hot where it touches him - snow rabbits startle and scatter, and with the last remnants of his flaying connection with the world he senses - the low, hostile hum of mobs, nearby. His anxiety buzzes, even more rapid than the racing thrum of his not-heartbeat, of the crackling magic that exudes from him in a glimmering aura - his chest heaves with an artificial desperation for air, because he’s _dead_ and he _doesn’t need it at all,_ why is he even panicking so hard, it’s _nothing,_ it’s just connecting to his _world, dis_ connecting-

 _-their world,_ something whispers in him, and it’s not the red but his own sickening green that sometimes feels even more poisonous than _them_.

Distantly, he recognises the rollercoaster-ride he’s on right now - he’s having a panic attack on the forest floor of a snow biome - and isn’t that just great, the snow sticks to the bright lime of his blood, smeared and ugly and gross, he’s gross. He’s so _ugly._ How did he ever think green was pretty, it’s just as bad as red, it’s just- 

It’s just…

It’s…

Clanking bones, footsteps, rattling ribs - his not-breath catches, his thoughts stutter to a halt.

There’s the telltale sound of a bowstring being drawn back, and he turns his head to look. He shouldn’t look, why is he? He shouldn’t - but he does, he-

A skeleton is standing on the other side of the river, arrow nocked and aimed straight at him. 

Dream just stares, and there’s a long, silent moment of tension where he just - glares through his mask that’s still fucking smiling, not in the mood to deal with this shit at _all,_ but also almost resigned to his fate as the skeleton moves to let go - whatever, it doesn’t matter, he’s _dead_ anyways-

There’s a whistle, a thunk, a thud. A pile of bones hits the ground with a clatter and a puff of dust where the skeleton once was, and Dream turns his head again, despite himself.

A piglin hybrid, tall and imposing with a crown and a cape, slings their bow back over their shoulders and grins at him, the perfect picture of idle strength. “Hey, ghost. What’re ya doing here, you’re gonna-” the smile melts off their face, replaced with slack-jawed shock, and some instinct in Dream can’t help but be proud that he managed to make the _Blood God,_ of all people, to gape- 

(how did he know that? how did he know who he _was-_ ) 

“Dream? Wait - _Dream?_ ” asks the piglin hybrid, with wide eyes and something like _vulnerability_ there in him, raw and bare, settling bone-deep in every line of his body, and it’s all so _unlike him_ that Dream can’t help but stare from where he’s sprawled in the cold, cold snow. And then a name rises to his lips, unbidden, and then-

“T-Techno?”

And he - almost - remembers. The feeling of his mask shattering against his face - of sunlight burning into his pale cheeks - of losing - of-

(something like _freedom,_ in reach, bittersweet and damning)

“What,” the piglin hybrid says, blank and disbelieving, then - “what...the. Okay. Okay, okay, this is fine. This is, uh. Normal. Come on, uh, you’re going to melt out here in the snow. Let’s… let’s go, c’mon, let’s get you inside.”

And Dream can only _stare,_ utterly gobsmacked, as the piglin hybrid lumbers over - leaving large footprints in the snow, he thinks idly, and they’re hoof-shaped- 

His mind races - _Techno Techno Techno **Techno** _ screams part of him, he wants to _remember_ and it’s like puzzle pieces turned the wrong way, so frustratingly close that you just want to _stomp_ them into fitting together - wrestle yourself into remembering but it doesn’t _work_ like that, and he feels himself skitter back, almost involuntarily, over the snow at the predator _(warrior he’s a warrior he’s_ Techno _you_ **_know_ ** _him)_ approaching.

“Techno,” he says, and his teeth click and chatter and lock together and a knot tightens in him - _enemy,_ says something in him, but - they’re not enemies - Techno wouldn’t hurt him - right? He never - he didn’t - _but_ **_they_ ** _did,_ he realizes with a lurch of horror-twisted guilt- “T-Techno, w-what-?”

Seeming to suddenly realize that Dream is not exactly reacting well to his presence, Techno pauses a few feet away - face tight and weirdly-drawn as he stares at Dream, red eyes inscrutable and body language all tense readiness, as though expecting Dream to just lunge at him with fangs and teeth and claws. Which - well, it’s almost a fair assessment, considering that he doesn’t know about n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ and everything - but it still makes Dream wince when he sees, the damning evidence that he can’t - he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve trust. He can’t-

He can’t even trust himself, most of the time.

“Dream,” Techno says, careful and deceptively light - “do you… what do you…” The hybrid seems to work over his words for a long moment before sighing, shoulders slumping and extending a calloused hand, as though to help Dream up. The ghost eyes it, wary behind his mask. “Care to explain why you’re crashed in the snow near _my_ cabin bleeding all over the place?”

Dream blinks. “I’m… not bleeding,” he says slowly - almost defensively, although he’s kind of forgotten what that word means, again - he reaches out tentatively and accepts the offered hand, allowing Techno to pull him upright and Dream to float upwards, take off from the ground. The action feels oddly familiar in a way that he can’t explain, and he thinks - _sparring matches won and lost and_ ~~_we’re so weak, d̸̪̺̍͂͝r̸̲̫͒͝e̷̤̠̒a̸̤̕m̶͉͔̺̓̓, why don’t you want to get better?_ ~~

~~_you_ **_do_ ** _want to get better, don’t you?_ ~~

“You kind of are bleeding, actually,” Techno huffs, almost amused, and Dream doesn’t really know how to react to that statement, because he _isn’t._ At least, not anymore. How did Techno even notice that, anyways? The lime of his blood kind of blends into his hoodie, and it’s rather hard to see, except - oh, right, there’s a lot still smeared on his hands, not to mention his hoodie is literally _ripped-_ “By the way, why’s your blood green? You _are_ a ghost now, right?”

“...I… think so?”

Techno raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and he fidgets nervously under the stare.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Dream manages at last, and it’s a bit hard to think because Techno’s hands are so very _warm_ and clearly _alive_ and Dream can feel the pulse in them, and he’s suddenly all too aware of how his own hand is limp and lifeless, ice-cold and numb in comparison. “It’s… really weird.”

“You don’t say.” Techno begins to walk, still gripping Dream’s freezing fist so tightly Dream’s kind of scared it’s going to fall off - and then they’re going towards, towards _somewhere,_ and the red in him resists and thrashes and froths, mad and foaming, but the rest of him is so stunned that Dream can only hover there, still a little rattled, still a little shaken - and he follows Techno off to god knows where, because he’s not quite sure what else there is to do.

(Night knows where, but he won’t ask.

he _won’t)_

“Melt?” Dream asks suddenly, remembering that weird phrasing and also maybe just a lot bit desperate to change the subject - why he says _that_ instead of the thousand other questions rattling around in him, he’s not too sure himself, but he’s a little too dazed to string them together into coherent sentences right now. “What do you - what did you mean, melt?”

Techno turns his head and stares blankly. “…how long, exactly, have you been a ghost,” he trails off, waiting, in lieu of a response - Dream blinks back at him from behind his mask, silently questioning. 

When Dream doesn’t say anything Techno huffs and clarifies; “like, have you, uh… oh, god, how do I say this - this is gonna sound so lame - have you, like ‘melted’ before? When, uh, coming in contact with water? Or snow?”

“No…?” Dream isn’t quite sure what to say to that, exactly. “Am I supposed to?”

“Maybe, I dunno,” is the only response vaguely resembling an answer Techno gives, before he continues to lug him towards wherever - which clarifies absolutely nothing at all, how helpful. Dream resigns himself to being bodily hauled (without even any answers as a consolation prize, ugh) with a groan of defeat, instead resolving to just stare down at where his feet pass straight through the snow. They don’t even bother in leaving any sort of tracks or grooves, as though he was never even there in the first place - unlike the footprints Techno leaves - hoofprints? - as though with every step the warrior is silently declaring _i was here, i am blood, i will not be unknown_.

(Like star and metal and rust and void, staring him down, just like - ~~_‘cause once you’re gone, who the hell’s going to remember you?_ ~~)

...it’s - it’s a weird thing, too - he can _feel_ the cold, prickling distantly at his ghostly flesh, can touch it to some extent, but it’s - muffled, yet burning, like all his nerves have gone numb with fire. Just thinking about it all makes his head spin, so Dream decides not to, which seems a pretty good solution. Maybe.

His head hurts. A lot.

Dream spaces out for a bit, at least until Techno lets go of his hand. They’re at the front of a wood-and-stone cabin, something Dream almost - _almost_ \- recognises, but ultimately doesn’t. He finds he misses the sudden lack of warmth, Techno’s - Techno’s _aliveness,_ the heated pulse of living against his own ethereal hands _-_ truly, really, honestly alive - not fake, not imitation, not magic. Just soul and body and mind all together, fitted perfectly in a skin just the right size, content for once - and, oh. Dream is spacing off again, wait.

“Dream?” Techno says, and it’s hesitant, almost. He tries to remember a time before, when Techno sounded like that - comes up with nothing, because Techno was always sure of himself. He _knows_ that.

He knows - he knew that.

“Sorry,” Dream says, and he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, just knows he has to apologize. Techno’s face flickers with something at that - surprise? unease? - and Dream feels his aura swing, going from a slow pulse to a fast hum to a shrill staccato, oscillating with his mounting anxiety.

He grits his teeth because this was _his_ magic, and it was _his_ body, even if it isn’t anymore.

(The red hisses in him, bubbling low and - and, and regretful, almost.

he wonders why.)

“Do you remember _anything_ ?” Techno asks, a little quieter, a little softer - almost gently, but the Blood God is never gentle, and that doesn’t change now. It’s familiar, it really is, and it makes Dream’s skin itch and his magic twist and knot and lurch with that deja vu that _isn’t._ Isn’t at all.

Does that make sense? Maybe not, but it makes sense to him. A little. Not - not really, but-

He grits his teeth behind his mask, glad for once that it’s there - that Techno can’t see the utter _frustration_ that’s doubtlessly flashing across it, why can’t he just _remember_ \- forces himself to bite out, keeping his voice calm and level and even - _he has practice, it’s_ fine - “Not - not really, I don’t think. Just - I died, and you - I think - we were…” friends? Enemies? Rivals?

What _had_ they been, exactly?

“...we fought before, I think.”

They fought, but Dream can’t parse out whether they fought _together_ or _against_ eachother, and it hurts to try.

“Do you remember MCC 8?”

Dream frowns, his mask hiding the motion. “What’s MCC?”

But even as he says it he’s starting to remember - that had been - that had been when - Night had been mostly asleep that day had lurked easily at the back of his mind as Dream - that had been the championship on that world, they - they’d been teamed-

They’d been - Michael, Burren, Techno - they’d won-

They’d…

_( and the universe said you have played the game well )_

“Yeah,” Dream says,” quieter, and something warm spills through his chest and his aura loosens just a fraction, settles quieter and serene. He finds himself wishing for that again, that easy companionship they’d had, back before-

...before it all, before-

before.

"Yeah," Techno says, equally soft, and it's almost - peaceful, maybe, two men in the snow in front of a handbuilt cabin, one alive and one so very, very, dead, both of them so alone it burns.

Ahead of him, a blue sheep trots out of the foliage, hooves crunching over the snow.

“Techno!” calls an achingly familiar voice, with a weird echo behind it, almost like- “Techno! Wait, hi! Techno, hi! You’re finally back, I’ve been waiting forever! Oh, you brought a friend, too? Friend, come meet Friend! My name’s Ghostbur, what’s yours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the recent fundy+bad streams have given me IDEAS please stop me before this gains more plot than it already has lmao
> 
> Anyhow, y'all are amazing, i appreciate all the support! unfortunately i can't keep up with every comment but trust me when i say i seriously appreciate every one of you, love you guys <3


	4. please can i be (colorful and free)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Ghostbur looks at him, really _looks_ at him like a switch’s been flipped, with eyes that burn blue with the weight of knowing, the burden of _knowledge,_ and something tightens, tripwire-tense and tremblingly-wound, in his chest.
> 
> And something’s wrong, here. He doesn’t know what.
> 
> “Drea **m.”** Gho - _Wilbur_ says, weightless and with inescapable gravity, and it feels like his world is tilting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve just realized that this story must be absolutely hell on earth for screen readers. if you’re still here i appreciate you lmao
> 
> anyways enjoy this relatively short chapter that's literally just 2.5k of ghostbur being weird while dream goggles at him 
> 
> tw: mild panic attack at the end of the chapter 
> 
> (chapter title from ECHO by crusher-p)
> 
> .

Dream turns at the call, aura skittering uncertainly with anxiety over his skin, scatter-sharp. A pale figure floats towards him and Technoblade, wispy and see-through and very clearly dead. He blinks, once and then twice again, at the strange sight - for a moment, he can’t help but swear he’s seeing double-

Wilbur - Ghostbur? Ghostbur - comes in and out of focus, flickering and vanishing and washing out into - into…

Into…

...what is… what is…?

_what is that…?_

( what am i? ~~what are you~~

let us be blue. let me take it for you let me take it from you don’t be sad have some blue! have some blue. have some blue have som

have

ha

have some-!! )

He stares, despite himself, because he cannot look away.

 _it whispers and whirls and tangles in bleeding lines, ruffling creases swifting into being and smoothing over again, so naturally unnatural it makes him want to run away. it draws him closer, too, swirling lines and shapes and_ things _that are too abstract to be described by such limiting constraints such as_ shape _and_ form _and it is_ beautiful _, soul given being and flowering and unfurling like it’s finally seen the sun_

 _the sun the sky it_ is _the sky it is the soul. alive alive alive again_

_come alive come alive_

_have you not seen the soul before?_

“...hi,” Dream says distractedly, too caught with the blooming magic of the other ghost - like airborn watercolor, misting and coiling into a loving embrace - it must be his aura, Dream thinks, because he’s never seen anything like that blue. The epiphany makes him blink, caught a little off-balance - Night can see auras, of course - they’re literally a creature of the old magics, after all - but Dream has never been able to. Not clearly.

Not until now.

Does that - does that mean-?

“Hello?” Ghostbur asks, suddenly appearing uncertain as he glides to a halt - he thinks. Maybe? Dream blinks and it’s gone, all he sees is a wavering silhouette that blurs strangely when he tries to look at it straight on, something that’s not supposed to be there but _is,_ somehow. Like a paradox, something that wasn’t meant to be. ~~it was never meant to be.~~ _shut the hell up._

Dream tries to refocus on the world and it’s - there, again, a faint shimmer not quite there but very clearly so. He looks towards finer details, struggles to decipher actual facial features and it all - clears, all at once, and all there is is a ghost wearing a faded yellow sweater with vacant eyes empty of life, smiling cheerfully and so - and so-

There’s something curious and probing on Ghostbur’s face, and his eyes are azure and shimmering and if Dream squints he thinks he can see the world ripple and blur navy-lapis-soul against the other ghost’s silhouette. 

_What…?_

“Hello? Can you hear me? Other ghost?”

Dream does hear him, but only barely. It’s like he’s - submerged, somehow, the sounds muffled underwater, and he has to shake his head to remind himself he’s still there.

“Right,” he says haltingly, and then, because that’s clearly not good enough - “yes. Uh. Sorry.”

He thinks he knows of Wil - of Ghostbur. It’s clouded, fuzzy - a little messed up and he can’t remember - _blue blue blue have some blue take it from me let me take it for_ you _-_ was that now or then? Here or before? It’s all twisted and tangled and when he blinks he’s not sure if he sees the tattered trenchcoat or the yellow sweater, tattered slightly at the sleeves and taunting him with its ambiguity. And there’s - _that,_ the _thing_ that is there but not at all-

The ghost reeks of _unknown,_ of a magic he doesn’t understand ~~and they don’t either but they’d never admit that, never ever~~

It’s… weird. Is he talking to a ghost or a shell? An illusion, or - something else?

Looking to them for answers is like trying to see himself in a cracked mirror - the image is fractured and distorted and when you tilt your head it winks and flashes and all the angles change, the complete picture changing as well. Reflecting, refracting.

He’s not sure.

“What are you?” he blurts, because he’s an impulsive bastard and he wants to know, ~~they need to know.~~

And then - and then.

And Ghostbur looks at him, really _looks_ at him like a switch’s been flipped, with eyes that burn blue with the weight of knowing, the burden of _knowledge_ , and something tightens, tripwire-tense and tremblingly-wound, in his chest.

And something’s wrong, here. He doesn’t know what.

“Drea **m**.” Gho - _Wilbur_ says, weightless and with inescapable gravity, and it feels like his world is tilting.

Ghostbur - that’s not - is that-?

(wilbur is dead, alivebur is _dead_ that shouldn’t be-

 _-and the mirror is shattered but still it smiles_ back _at you)_

And Ghostbur - Ghostbur sees him. He _sees_ him, he sees him bare and vulnerable and the red buried in his gut and rooting and flowering and winding through his green - that’s not - there isn’t - there is no demon in the man before him but this is _not right._

_What are you?_

“I’m **dead** _,_ Dream,” Wilbur says, and his voice is dripping poison.

Is that even - is that-? Is that even true?

(does it even matter?)

But Wilbur _knows,_ he sees it in his aura - the drifting currents in the air, the wisps of _more_ and _else_ that staccato and hiss with an almost otherworldly presence - that slip from him and hang over, looming - in the too-sharp angles of his figure, too highly-defined lines of his silhouette and bared teeth suddenly so much sharper than before - the ghost is something more, something _other,_ all dead and gone and naive, innocent but _not,_ hot and cold and knowledge knowledge _knowing_ blazing and the uncertainty scares Dream, all of it, because he - he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, here.

Is he alive or is he dead, or is he somewhere in between?

~~the dream is in the pandora’s box, with fifty percent chance of being dead fifty percent chance of being _nightmare_ ~~

Then Ghostbur blinks and goes _blank_ and then it’s - gone, the aura burns and sinks and then - collapses, crystallizes, forms into a blue _thing_ that pulses with soul and drops into Ghostbur’s waiting hands. Vacant eyes (but knowing, _too_ knowing) stare emptily at him from a smiling, cheerful, face, and then-

“Hi! What’s your name? Would you like some blue?”

Dream stares, for a moment, at an utter loss of words because - w - how - what-? _What?_

What just - what just happened?

“Well, that was weird,” Techno comments casually from behind him, and Dream startles at his voice because if he’s being honest, he’d forgotten Techno was there for a second. “Although, to be fair. Dream, that _was_ a pretty rude question.”

The conversational, stilted monotone is familiar. It’s familiar but it’s also suddenly infuriating because _why can’t he just-?!_

Dream bites down on his tongue so he doesn’t yell out in frustration, feels the taste of empty void swallow his throat from behind his mask and tries to think of something else to say that isn’t absolutely mad screaming. It’s surprisingly difficult, because - just, what? 

_“What,”_ he finally manages, through gritted teeth - “what. Was that.”

(he doesn’t see how the Blade recoils at the tone, because that is not the tone of a dead man. 

no, it is the snarl of someone who pulls the strings with no qualms, someone who threatens, someone who destroys, someone who-

 _“I don’t give a_ **_fuck_ ** _about Spirit-!”_

he doesn’t see how. maybe it’s for the better.

 ~~but _they_ do. ~~)

“I - um, he does that sometimes?” Techno says, almost hesitant. The tone feels almost - wrong, somehow, to Dream - for a reason he can’t quite say in words - Techno’s not, Techno isn’t _hesitant,_ that’s just - that's just _wrong_ \- “Like, how should I put it - when he gets, I dunno, bullied too badly - he just kind of stops, I guess. Forgets a bunch of stuff that happened recently and - spaces out. Like, restarts?” It’s more of a question than an answer and Dream has to fight to not set the world on fire.

Figuratively, of course. He’s not _Pandas_.

(pandas - who-? wait - w-)

“Wait, what’s happening?” asks Ghostbur, pulling back and blinking confusedly. Dream tries to ignore how the specter keeps static-ing out in the corner of his vision, vanishing into hazy drifts of blue that fog up the air with an azure tint. 

Techno sighs aggrievedly, shaking his head like this happens often. It probably does, although Dream doesn’t remember, so… that’s useless, then. “Ghostbur, this is Dream. He’s dead. Dream - Ghost Dream? What do you even want to be called, anyways?” Techno turns to stare blankly at Dream with bloodred eyes that burn straight through him, and he can’t help but feel skewered by the stare.

“J-just - just Dre is fine,” he manages, tripping over his words. _(where did that - where did that come from - the tournament - what-?)_ Unconsciously he reaches up to adjust his mask, wincing when he realizes it’s oven-hot on his face. They don’t _feel_ very active, but he supposes it’s not something he’d have noticed, considering the whole… Ghostbur thing. What even…?

“Dre,” Techno says skeptically, but there’s something on the piglin’s face he can’t quite decipher, something like - like - he can’t - _what am i missing? i can’t re_ member _-_ before shrugging amicably. “Whatever, you do you I guess.” It doesn’t feel like _whatever,_ Techno doesn’t even look like he considers it _whatever_ but - wait, how can he read Techno again-?

“So, Ghostbur, this is Dre, I guess,” Techno says before he can think on it any further - “and, uh, Dream, you’ve met Ghostbur. Right. We should probably get inside before Ghostbur melts, by the way, ‘cause Ghostbut kinda does that in snow…”

“Really?” Dream asks rhetorically, more out of an obligation to say something than actual skepticism. Although it did surprise him, a little bit - wait, hadn’t Techno said something like that to him already, earlier? Why was he surpri - what was he surprised about again?

“What?” Dream asks. “Wait - uh-”

“Keep up,” Techno says dryly. “Come on, let’s go.”

Head spinning and feeling impossibly off-kilter, Dream floats reluctantly after Techno and Ghostbur as the three of them head inside. Ghostbur is oddly quiet - or maybe he’s just like that naturally? Dream isn’t sure - isn’t sure he wants to even know. What if Ghostbur’s quiet because he doesn’t like Dream? What if he doesn’t - what if he-

What if he _knows?_

That’s not even a question, now that Dream thinks on that more. It’s more a thought of - of, what if he - what if he remembers? 

Does he?

Dream isn’t Ghostbur, and Ghostbur isn’t him. He doesn’t know what Ghostbur remembers or not, but he’s still… well. Holding out, maybe. _Hoping,_ maybe.

He isn’t sure why he even tries. 

He isn’t sure on a lot of things.

Dream finds himself staring at the thing Ghostbur is playing with in his hands - some sort of… stone? Dye? He’s not even sure. It’s soaked through, whatever it is, with an incredibly saturated blue that radiates summer in a way he can’t explain. Like - calming, peaceful, at the same time it is _terrifying._

Dream doesn’t know what it is, and he’s torn between not _wanting_ to know and desperately craving the knowledge to the point of passing out.

“Dre?”

Ghostbur - right, Ghostbur. The other ghost is peering at him oddly, something strange on the specter’s face that Dream isn’t sure how to decipher _(like knowledge, like knowing, like i_ **_see_ ** _you)._ He resolves to not think about it, instead looks away and fumbles for his words - words, right, words were a thing - he’s supposed to respond - what was the question-?

“Uh,” Dream says intelligently.

The corners of Ghostbur’s mouth appear to tick upwards - but Dream’s imagining things, probably. Is he? He isn’t sure. Maybe, maybe not. Yes? No? He doesn’t - agh, he doesn’t _know,_ it’s not - ender, he is not equipped to _deal_ with this-

“Forgotten where you are?” The blue ghost asks cheerfully, as though Dream hadn’t just nearly had an internal crisis.

“Kind of?” Dream bites down on his tongue before he can say anything more stupid, if that was even possible. It probably was, considering his track record. Not that he even _remembers_ half of it, anyways-

“We’re in Techno’s cabin,” Ghostbur says, impossibly gentle, and Dream has to avert his eyes before the ghost goes blue again in front of him again. “We’re waiting on Phil and Tommy to come back from their mining trip-”

“Wait, what?!” Dream jerks upright, all semblance of calm gone, skin crackling to life with anxious energy. “Who - who’s Phil? T-Tommy? I don’t - I don’t think-”

_tommy he hurt tommy he can’t face tommy he can’t look him in the eye not with this fucking mask that feels like molten metal on his face he can’t he can’t he can’t-!_

_he doesn’t know what they did he doesn’t want to know he wants to run he wants to hide he has to_ go

_he has to - he has to,_

_disappear;_

~~you could just let me take care of him for you~~

_shut_ **_up-!_ **

“Dre, you’re being red.”

Dream jolts into semi-awareness - he’s got his arms around his own torso, is shaking so hard he can _feel_ his aura renting apart - slips under just as quickly, gasps for air he doesn’t need, slides a hand over that accursed mask on his face and tries not to scream when he realizes it’s lava-hot - it hurts it hurts it _burns_ but he doesn’t feel it at _all._ He does? Maybe? He doesn’t - he can’t even _tell-_

 _what am i, what color am i, please tell me tell me tell me_ now

“-what,” he chokes out, hands fisting in his hair and he feels nails dig into his scalp but there is no _pain -_ “what, what color, what color is-” _i’m not i’m not i am_ not

The world drains away.

His ears - pop, like air pressure, all of the heat rushing out - he blinks, the sudden, artificial calm welcoming but also like just _what? this is wrong this is wrong what is_ happening - he lets go, slow and hesitant and reluctant, almost - and once he’s lucid enough to register the world around him he startles because everything is _blue._

The air is swirling with the sadness, the empty and the turmoil - and he stares back at Ghostbur who watches him almost - stoically, something he can’t decipher on the other’s face. The ghost is glowing, eyes voids of endless azure, pulling and reeling in the unwanted emotions like he’s the center of a black hole, absorbing-

 _-taking,_ he’s taking Dream’s _sadness-_

-it feels strange. He reaches for a red that isn’t there, has been drowned out, and he feels like - almost like screaming.

He can’t summon the emotion to do so, however, no matter how hard he tries.

He's too empty for this.

“...what,” Dream whispers, and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry for disappearing for like two weeks,, in my defense this is competition season and i've been very busy. i also moved apartments recently so that's pog
> 
> as always thanks for reading! i am very tired rn as you can (probably) tell


	5. the voices in my head i think are not my own (but i will reap the seeds that my hands have sown)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t fair,” Tommy says, and it’s quiet and an almost-whisper but everyone in the room hears it anyways. 
> 
> Except Ghostbur, but he doesn’t count - the ghost is humming to himself as he warps and distorts oddly at the corner of his vision, with no care for whatever is currently happening in the present. 
> 
> He wishes he could forget like that.
> 
> “What isn’t fair?” Dream asks absentmindedly, and he instantly knows he’s made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all really seem to really like confused!dre so get ready for a ride >:D
> 
> some tws: heated confrontation, tommy being tommy, minor disassociation 
> 
> (chapter title is from _chara_ by mandopony)

Dream does not sleep.

As a result, he does not dream, either.

Dreaming is for the humans, for those who still remember what _wholeness_ is like, for the people who are still _people_ and not - not _creatures,_ not like him. Sleep is not for the weak, it is for the _strong_ \- for those who are willing to surrender themselves to the void and empty, let the vulnerability take over. For those who aren’t afraid to be vulnerable, but _welcome_ it.

Dream is a paranoid person - he’s always been. Combined with Night’s penchant for chaos and anchor of control, he rarely slept.

 _They_ never dreamed.

But Dream opens his eyes to darkness, to shades of azure and a color filter he can’t decipher. He blinks furiously but the world is still blue, and he traces the darkness but he can’t remember.

There is a mask on his face but there is no mask at all, not in here.

The world is unfamiliar, even in the depths of the mindspace. The magic in the air rolls and pulses, a living _thing,_ clouding and stuffy and stifling and he-can’t- _think_ with how the air chokes him. It’s a presence that is suffocatingly familiar, grabbing him in a ironclad grip - soft and settling but incredibly firm. It’s also none of that, all of that, at once.

The mirror fractures further, washed-out with _blue_ and Dream struggles to think with the magic clouding his head and polluting his thoughts, without the will to think or even be angry at it all. It just - he can’t remember how to be _sad_ but he’s not happy, either, is drowning in a sea of blue that whispers against his skin, overpowers his green, burns where it brushes against him-

Dream does not _dream;_ nothing as kind as that. 

But he comes close.

There’s something behind him. He turns because he can’t bear to be vulnerable, can’t stand the thought of the unknown something behind him remaining so even if he doesn’t want to know. He bares his teeth at the empty smile that stares back, cracked and crumbling, because his entire world is falling apart and it’s the last thing he has that is _his._

 _funny how the only thing i’m defined by anymore is the demon in my head,_ he thinks bitterly - to himself? - or maybe someone else - as he’s pulled under.

-

_“...man,_ you’re one to fucking _talk_ Techno - you’re the one who owes him a favor-!” 

Awareness slots together in pieces.

Dream does not sleep, but coming back from the suspension of limbo is quite similar to waking up. He thinks? 

He doesn’t know what sleep is like, but he can guess. Probably. He doesn’t - he doesn’t sleep. He thinks - he thinks he told Techno as much, once.

Except-

-it feels like he’s just waking up, sometimes, after he comes back from staring off into empty space - like he’s just come back from dreaming and can’t remember what it was all about, can’t even remember if he _did_ dream in the end. It’s like floating, groggy and grimy with the uncleanliness of thoughts that refuse to leave, while all the ones you want to stay fly right out the window.

Coming - coming back from the void is completely different, even when it’s all absolutely the _same._

And he doesn’t - sleep, never even knows if he dreams, and when he does come up for air it’s always jarring to remember that he’s dead now and he doesn’t - he doesn’t - he can’t breathe anymore.

“I fucking hate him, he always has to make everything so freaking _complicated_ \- the - the the the - the bastard-! That bastard - how can you! - how can you you you _forgive_ him he’s a fucking _psychopath_ that that - and, and for the fucking record, I don’t trust the bitch at all-”

The first thing he’s aware of is the pleasant coolness of the mask on his face. Well, that’s one question answered, then. 

Also, is that-?

“I don’t _forgive_ him. He’s a ghost, Tommy,” deadpans that voi - _Techno,_ right, that’s - Techno, Techno he _knows_ that - that - okay okay um _okay -_ fuck he _remembers_ , alright? - right? Only - wait, did Techno say _Tommy-?!_ “You don’t have to trust him, just - give him a chance, alright. He doesn’t even know what he’s done. You really gonna blame him for that?”

“I can and fucking will, watch me-!”

“Really, you didn’t do that with _Ghostbur,_ he hurt you too-”

“He̵y̷! I̶'m̵ ̴s̸t̵i̷ll ̷h̵er̴e too, you k̶no̵w̷̩̅͘! What are you guys arguing about again? Want some blue?” 

The voice is familiar - almost, almost lulling, except too many octaves off and echoing and bouncing, static tickling the edge of his thoughts. It’s creepy, in a way he can’t explain - a siren’s call hiding a razor edge. It grates at something ingrained in him, something that snarls _wrong wrong wrong this is not_ ** _right,_** and he blinks haphazardly at the dullness of the inside of his mask because if azure were a voice, then that voice is drenched in dripping hues.

It feels familiar. Everything is, in a way, it’s just - not?

Because he knows this, he _knew_ this but he just doesn’t remember. Or maybe he does, and it’s just escaped him since.

“Shut - shut up, Ghostbur - I’m, I’m I’m just sayin’, I don’t buy that, that, _what,_ innocent act? I’m not falling for - I don’t buy it for one _second-”_

It kind sounds as though they’ve already had this back-and-forth a dozen times before, maybe more. Wait, what? What back-and-forth? What is - what are? He isn’t - he isn’t _acting -_ but is he? Is he - is he acting? Is that bad of him?

Isn’t he - isn’t he-

Isn’t-

“Besides! Besides - you really fucking sure he _doesn’t_ remember? This is _Dream_ we’re talking about here! He’s the motherfucking god of this damn planet! If anyone could remember, it’s _him.”_

A heavy sigh. “He’s not a _god,_ you idiot, Phil would know-”

“He made this - how did he make the world, then-?! Normal people can’t just _do_ that-!”

Dream wants to just curl up and die on the spot, even more than he already has. There’s absolute _hatred_ in Tommy’s tone and - he doesn’t remember a lot about Tommy, really, but the boy hadn’t - he hadn’t hated him, had he? Had they done that?

Had _Dream_ done that?

Wait - no, _wait-_

“Anyways, if _you_ guys want to just go ahead and trust motherfucking _Dream_ of all people, who is actually fucking dead despite this world not having disintegrated or been set on fire or exploded or - or _something,_ I dunno - _fine,_ I guess - he - he’s literally _Dream!_ I don’t - how can you guys - how can you guys trust him?”

Tommy sounds so - Tommy sounds so small. So - _broken,_ in a way Dream can’t even say, it’s just-

-that’s not the Tommy he remembers. 

But he hardly remembers anything at all.

 _“Ghost_ Dream,” Techno corrects lowly, sounding both tired and resigned and so ridiculously done all in one. “ _Dre._ Dream is _dead,_ Tommy. Please, calm the hell down. He didn’t even remember MCC-”

“Where the hell’d the fucking name _Dre_ come from then-” 

He can’t - god, why can’t they just stop _talking,_ he can’t - he can’t - he can’t _think-_

“Tommy-”

“Excuse me, I still think this is a _very bad idea?!_ I mean, he remembered Tubbo and Fundy exorcising him, apparently, but didn’t remember his own goddamn _wedding -_ and if you think _that’s_ not suspicious, okay; he _did_ literally attack me and the others-”

“You said it was after he turned red or sumthin’,” Techno deadpanned, “you tell _me_ if he looks red right now.”

And - wait - _what?!_

Red - he wasn’t - was he - he was-?!

He blinks open his eyes to see that the world is no longer blue anymore - the colors still look _fake_ in a way he can’t describe, though, faded and bleached and bland, blurring together, tinted with a strangeness that forces him to try and squint. It gives him a sort of blindness that makes him feel impossibly vulnerable in a way he can’t even quite understand - it’s just color, what…?

(how did George ever _stand_ this?)

Wait - George-? what-

Something stabs in him, knife-sharp and pounding. Dream groans and reaches up to feel his mask - his hands catch on a chip in the porcelain, and it’s only after the jolt of the sensation grounds him that he realises he has a huge migraine. The arguing abruptly stops in the background - or maybe that’s just him getting really really dizzy, whatever.

 _“...sh_ tup,” he manages to slur out after a long moment of silence. _“...yr_ … bein’ loud.” 

They’d literally just stopped, but whatever, the reprimand couldn’t hurt.

“What the hell, green man, you have a hangover or some shit?” snarls - Tommy, that’s-

Wait, right, _Tommy_ -

Dream sits up so fast he nearly bangs foreheads with Techno, who leaps back with an alarmed expression and a sword suddenly in-hand _(what? what what what what’s happening i don’t understand-)._ He’s suddenly wide-awake, starkly aware of just how - how _vulnerable_ he is - he needs he needs he has to have - where’s his netherite? - where’s his axe - where is-

~~_nightmare_ ~~

-̷w̶h̴y̶ ̷i̷s̵ ̵-̶ ̷w̵̢͝h̶̫̏y̴̞͂ ̶̺͝i̷͚͝s̷̭̾ Tommy ̶̱̉t̵͖̎a̶̛͖l̸̯͊k̷͕̓ḯ̷͉n̴̡̐g̶̡͐ ̶̼͊d̵̨̅o̴̭̚ẅ̵͙ń̸͜ ̸̼͗t̸̞̋o̶̫͝ ̵͈̐ẖ̵̄ḯ̷̪m̶̰ Tommy ̷̽ͅi̷̲̓ş̴͝ **̴͔͊w̵͠ͅḛ̷̈́ǎ̵̤k̴̨̓** Tommy ̶̬̅i̶̡s̵̨̎ **̷͓̉n̸̲̾o̴̞͝t̵̜͠ḥ̵͐i̷̼͐n̷͉̚g̶̥͘** -̶̮̋ **-̶**

-Tommy isn’t nothing - Tommy isn’t - what? - wait - Tommy’s not-

-what - _what…?_

“T-” Dream’s voice cracks, he tries - he tries again - “Tomm - Tommy? What - aren’t you in - I don’t-”

He’s not - wasn’t Tommy safe? - no, that’s not right - but Night said - Night is a fucking _liar-_

He’s - he’s sitting up, he’s swaying - he’s - he’s-

His world tilts from the sudden change in position and he fights to steady himself. He can’t - he doesn’t know how to breathe, he’s not alive - he’s _not-?!_ But he thought - fingers dig, clawlike, into the couch armrest and - wait, he’s on a couch - did he? - what is - Tommy’s here - what’s - Tommy no _Tommy_ \- he doesn’t underst - Tommy Tommy’s bad he’s too - wait what is happe - oh no he can’t he can’t - what is breathing again? What is - this is not right - w̷͕͋̈́͛h̴̍ä̵ṭ̸̛̝ ̷̙̃̎a̶r̸̨͐e̴̛̬̱̼ ̵y̸̑o̸̕͘u̴͗͝?̷̜͚̼̌?̴͆? - he’s breathing but he can’t he is _dead - what’s happenin_ ** _g_** _-_ _Tommy-!_

_i don’t i don’t, where are the colors where are my_

_where are my_

_where are my colors_

_where are my_ color **s**

“Dre?”

He turns his head and through the swimming stars in his vision he sees a ghost and an angel on the other side of the room _(who are you)_ \- they'd been being quiet while Tommy and Techno were arguing, he thinks, that was nice of them _(what am i)_ \- his new favorite people-! ~~_george i’m sorry i didn’t mean that you couldn’t_ ~~ _-_ wait, he knows that ghost, isn’t that - isn’t that-?

Ghost - Ghostbur-

 _(̶w̵h̸̷e̸r̶e̴. ̷a̴r̵e̶. ̸m̷y̶. ̷c̶o̵l̶o̷r̴s̴. ̶w̸h̷a̴t̸. ̵d̷i̵d̸. y̷o̴u. ̵d̵_ **_o̷_ ** _)̶_

-blue, he’s blue, blue isn’t - blue is-

Alivebur smiles and it is ~~red _red_ **red** ~~ blue. Then it’s - not? No? It’s Ghostbur, right - right?

 _“Dre,”_ the voice says again, older and deeper and grounding, settling.

The world buzzes and then goes blank, all the color leeching away - he blinks, no, it’s still there? That doesn’t - “Dre, you’re Dre, right?”  
The angel - the angel is talking to him.

That’s not - wait, that’s not an - that’s-

-that is-

Wings blur against Ph1lza’s back and the god’s head tilt and he is ̷s̸o̴m̶e̴t̶h̸i̶n̵g̶ ̸e̴l̵s̴e̶ and ̴s̵o̸m̴e̶t̸h̷i̷n̴g̶ ̵m̷o̴r̸e̷ and he’s an angel and - something _other_ and he _is_

_power and grace and everything impossible, undeniable, inevitable. like death’s grasping claws, clutching-_

_one center, one pulse, one heart one_ life _beating, flush in their chest, so mortal yet not at all with how their silhouette stands, winged and glittering._

“...you’re - you’re a _god,”_ Dream blurts out, then flushes upon realising he’d just - just stated the obvious, but he - he hadn’t? He hadn’t - had he known that, before? He’d known that, right?

He’d _had_ to have, r-right?

The angel-god - what even? They feel like void, somewhat, like ender curling - wings a cold embrace of broken starlight, refracting through fragmented feathers - but they aren’t any bit Dreamon so _what are-?_

“Yes, I am,” they say, and a smile curves across their face and something about their aura is different. They feel _powerful._ They feel _ancient._

Like they’re… 

“...you’re _old,”_ Dream manages out at last, too stunned to form words.

Tommy bursts out into harsh, barking laughter beside him that doesn’t sound happy at all; Dream flinches away at the sudden outburst. “Fuck, that’s what _I_ said!”

“That’s what she said,” Techno mutters, and he sounds utterly resigned. Dream is now very confused. Ghostbur is giggling in the background, continually blue-ing out into hissing tangles of aura that he’s doing his best to stubbornly ignore.

(Does Ghostbur even _know?_ Even _realise_ what he is, fractured and folded and not-at-all whole? Not - not even by ghost standards, but-

-but does he blame Dream?)

_where_

_are my_

_̴̯̀̚co̵̖̤͛̚l̵͠o̸r̷s̵̱͒͒?̸̛̙̊͜!̴̖̉_

“Well,” says the not-old god, with eyes mirthful, star-bright and wings, void-dark - hitching up, rising above his shoulders, unfolding and fanning out - Dream can’t help but stare, watch wide-eyed behind ceramic ever-smiling as white diamond patterns beneath dark, graying feathers flash and wink at him, unveiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Dre. Er - I don’t believe we’ve met before.” 

It makes something in his chest catch, the whole world seeming to breathe to a halt around him - the casual display of power in vulnerability, baring the most bare parts of one’s being with a quicksilver smile and a silent message of _touch me or my sons and i’ll_ **_destroy_ ** _you._ And it feels like a _threat_ but also ridiculously - not? Dream isn’t sure how to read the man before him. The only thing he can get off him is rolling waves of not-aggression that makes his hackles stand on end, because Ghostbur is _all_ weird and he _knows_ he doesn’t know what Ghostbur is, blue and eldritch and some entity in-between, but this man - he feels like he should know what this man is.

This man - this _god-_

“H-have we?” Dream stutters out, and immediately wants to kick himself.

The others are silent, now. Tommy is watching with narrowed, fiery eyes and a razor scowl; Techno simply studies them all, expression inscrutable. Ghostbur doesn’t even seem to realise what is going on, simply playing with the blue in his hands and petting a blue sheep - wait, a blue sheep? - those exist? - next to him. How did the sheep even get inside, anyways?

“Do you remember anything about me?” asks the being with the face of a man in front of him, expressionlessly huge and fathomless and it’s all Dream can do to even focus on his words.

“I… you’re... Phil? I think - I don’t...”

_(lowered gaze and narrowed eyes, a handshake and a hidden agenda - tight words whispered in exchange. a brief moment of clarity, so bright and striking he’s blinded by it, sudden and stunning-_

_“I don’t know what you are, Dream. I doubt you know either-_

_-but I promise that I_ **_will_ ** _fix you.”)_

“Yeah, I’m Philza,” Phil says, still smiling - “but you can call me Phil. We - uh, we didn’t really get to know eachother before-”

That’s not a lie, but there’s something behind those words, something brimming with an emotion he can’t identify - like - like?

“-but anyways, you’re here now, aren’t you?”

Is that - is that a question? Is he supposed to answer that? He fumbles for words he can’t remember, thorns on his tongue pricking him with every word - “Um, yeah?”

Did he answer correctly? Was that - was that the right thing to say?

Did he - did he…

~~no, you didn’t~~

_...oh, okay._ He’d been wondering where Night was, but he can’t help the sink of his heart at the - the words, static against scattered soul, rattling _empty_ that looms, omnipresent.

Something about it makes his head pound, his heart clench and it feels like _lying._

Phil seems to notice his anxiousness, the electricity thrumming high in his skin and his smile softens just a touch. “You can ask, I don’t mind,” Phil says, and Dream blinks because - gods can’t read minds, can they? Or maybe he’s just that obvious.

“Are you - are you a g-godling?” he asks, almost shyly, because what if Phil doesn’t like - does Phil like people asking questions? He let him, maybe, but what if - what if he thinks - what if he, what if he thinks Dream is annoying? Or that he wants to hurt him? Dream wouldn’t hurt Phil, of course - he doubts he even could if he tried - but Night…

Night is a different story. 

They’ve always been.

Phil laughs at that, warm and almost - _almost,_ if he deludes himself - welcoming. Despite it all, his nerves can’t help but settle a little at the sound. “Not exactly. I’m more of an Inbetween, really.”

Dream has no idea what that means, but he nods anyways. Night probably knows; he could ask them later. Not that they’d give him a straight answer, anyhow. 

“Oh. Um, okay.” His hands twitch with the urge to fidget with something but he has no energy to actually move, so he just stares trancelike at the ground in front of him. That’s when he notices he has no shoes. Did he spawn barefoot? Dream can’t remember. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.

Why is he even thinking about this? It doesn’t even matter. There are lots of other things he should be questioning, right now, but he feels so - listless, so _lifeless_ all of a sudden, cold and still and almost as dead as he’s supposed to be.

A silence stretches out, long and awkward and no one wanting to be the one to break it, until-

“This isn’t fair,” Tommy says, and it’s quiet and an almost-whisper but everyone in the room hears it anyways. 

Except Ghostbur, but he doesn’t count - the ghost is humming to himself as he warps and distorts oddly at the corner of his vision, with no care for whatever is currently happening in the present. 

He wishes he could forget like that.

“What isn’t fair?” Dream asks absentmindedly, and he instantly knows he’s made a mistake.

Tommy leaps to his feet with a shout, his chair tipping backwards and hitting the floorboards with a loud _BANG._ Dream startles badly at the sound, the sudden mood change giving him whiplash, and he sees both Phil and Techno do so as well - but only vaguely, briefly, because Tommy is lunging forward, getting up into his face, shouting - _“everything - EVERYTHING! You_ bastard, _this is_ all your fault _I hate you I_ hate _you I-”_ Tommy breaks off into something that’s almost a sob, might’ve been one in another world but then - “It’s not, this isn’t fair, why did you get to fucking die? Why are you allowed to become a ghost when you _wouldn’t let me DIE?!”_

~~it’s not your time to die yet, Tommy-~~

~~“-it’s never my time to die.”~~

“Tommy-” Dream says, helplessly, because he knows _something_ is wrong here, some kind of history he can’t parse out, caught between jumbled lines of thought tangled so deeply it might be red or blue or burning - “I don’t - what are you-?”

“Why won’t you just let me _hate_ you?!” Tommy screams, and then - oh. _Oh._

~~that’s what this is about? really?~~

_shut up for once in your goddamned existence,_ Dream hisses back, because he _has_ to hear this. He _has_ to know - to _know_ what Night did, what they did to Tommy - what does he have to fix? What can he make up for?

 _Can_ he make up for anything?

“Why can’t you just be an irredeemable bastard that I can actually fucking _hate_ and not - not be _gray_ or whatever shit - this - why can’t you just be _evil?”_ Tommy screams - he throws his arms out, everything about him burning sharp with accusation, every line of his face alight with heat and fire - “Why did you have to _forget_ what you - what you you _did_ to me, what you - why did you _forget?_ Why can’t you just - why can’t you just suffer with the goddamned _guilt?_ Let me fucking _hate you!”_

And that - that - that _hurts._

It - it hurts, because Dream does - Dream _does_ remember. He didn’t forget, not completely - or maybe he did? He doesn’t even know. And Tommy wants - Tommy want to hate him. Dream knew that Tommy hates him, of course he does, how could he not-?! 

But it’s - worse, somehow, like this, with Tommy glaring at him with eyes that glisten and teeth bared in a display of aggression to defend everything else about him - something about this, this anger - this fury burning hot and high and Tommy looks like he’s ready to rip Dream to shreds without remorse. Like he’s ready to kill Dream,again and again and again, as many times as it takes until he stays dead.

Or like he’s ready to run _away._

...Dream isn’t sure which is worse.

Tommy looks angry and frightened and so, so, small, and then- 

And then-

“Fine,” Tommy spits out at last, and his voice is still enraged but his shoulders slump in defeat and his eyes glisten, shimmer, blink rapidly with the forbidden sheen of something like _vulnerability-_ “Fine - _fine._ Fine, y-you guys can - you can all side with him, go befriend the bastard that - that…” He shoots a glare at Dream, but it lacks the strength of before, only holds a tainted disappointment, a bitterness that crushes all the color out of him. _“Fine._ Leave me or whatever. See if I care."

And he isn’t even talking to Dream anymore, he doesn’t think, and that just makes him feel _worse._

And Dream wants to - to _say something._ He wants to - wants to scream, wants to shout and stomp his feet and let the whole world hear, hear that _it wasn’t him, it wasn’t_ him-! and _grab_ Tommy by the shoulders, shake him _hard,_ shout in his face until he _understands_ but Dream knows that that would be cruel. He knows that he deserves it all. 

Tommy doesn’t want to hear it, anyways. 

It’s better if Tommy hates him, ultimately. Even if it hurts. 

It’s better for all of them, really.

“Tommy,” Techno is saying, his brow furrowed and there’s something strange on his face that feels almost like _fear-?_ “Tommy, you know we aren’t abandoning you or anything, right? It’s just - Dre doesn’t actually remember, it wouldn’t be fair to-”

He _does_ remember but he _doesn’t,_ he doesn’t even _know-_

“Leave me alone,” Tommy barks out, and the door slams behind him. Running footsteps and muffled sobs fade into nothing, and the noise resonates in Dream’s ears. Echoing, and it throbs angrily like a parasitic heartbeat in his chest. Eating at him.

“Sorry,” he says to the empty air where Tommy was a second ago, because he’s too much of a coward to say it to the teen’s face.

It’s an empty apology - he doesn’t even know exactly what he’s apologising for, doesn't know how to _fix it -_ but it’s a start, right? It’s the thought that counts. Right?

Maybe?

Dream doesn’t know exactly what they had done - what _he_ had done - but he has an inkling. Maybe.

He doesn’t like what it is at all. And one thing he knows is that he - he needs answers.

Dream turns to Ghostbur for that, who although is one hell of a headache to deal with, was also simultaneously far more likely to tell the actual truth. He only hesitates for a second before he bites the bullet.

“...what did I - what did I do to Tommy to make him…” _loathe, fear, dread, flinch from -_ “to make him, um, hate me so much? When I was… you know, still alive?”

He doesn’t fail to notice how both Techno and Phil seem to stiffen out of the corner of his eyes at the question. Dream can’t help the scowl that crawls to his face beneath his mask at the sight; he just wants to _know_ about whatever the hell Night had done, so he can _fix things._ How is he supposed to fix things when he has no idea what the hell he _did?_

As it turns out, the two living people still in the room had no reason to worry in the first place.

“I have no idea!” Ghostbur says brightly, and his visage ripples and flutters strangely, the yellow of his sweater jittering with static - blue, as always. “Maybe Techno knows!”

Dream turns his dead-eyed stare on Techno instead - not that the hybrid can see it, anyways, considering his mask, but he’s sure the fearsome warrior can imagine it somehow.

There’s a long silence. Dream is to the point of giving up on it - whatever, _fine._ If Techno doesn’t want to tell him, he’ll just figure it out himself- 

“You don’t want to know what you were like when you were alive,” Techno says quietly.

Dream blinks at the somber tone - Techno looks actually serious for once, crown and cape cast aside and staring at Dream straight-on with scarlet eyes that pierce right through him.

“Well, I - I don’t know about _that,”_ Dream says dubiously, unaware of how Techno nearly flinches at the familiar mannerisms. “I mean, I did have - I was alive, right? I had a… I had a life. Did I have any friends?”

He hopes - he hopes he didn’t. Who _knows_ what Night - what Night would’ve done to distance himself from whatever _friends_ he had, whatever-

“You don’t remember any of your friends?” Phil asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

Dream blinks slowly. Was he supposed to? Was it bad that he didn’t remember? Was he just that bad of a friend? Well, of course he was, Night ruined any chance of that for him - except, had he really not - had he really not-?

“...no.” Dream wished he could tell what thoughts were going through Techno and Philza’s heads right now - the two of them looked positively alarmed, exchanging impossibly not-subtle glances as though Dream didn’t have _eyes._ Sure, he had a _mask,_ but he could still _see_ through it. They _did_ know that, right?

“...guys, I’m still here.”

“Yes, we know,” Techno grumbles. Bloodred eyes flit back over to Dream, and his hands twist uncomfortably on his lap as his anxiety buzzes. He doesn’t know what they’re saying to eachother in that silent conversation of theirs that they’re having, meaningful nods and head-tilts and side-eyes and it just - it makes him feels so _thrown,_ so out-of-the-loop and _alone_ and just-

“Don’t worry, they do this all the time around me.” 

Dream thinks he nearly astral-projects onto the next plane with how badly he startles - the blue is suddenly _right there_

 _(where are my colors give them_ **_back_ ** _)_

-and he was _not_ expecting the - the _abruptness_ of Ghostbur’s words. If they can even be considered Ghostbur - Alivebur? Something else? What - who even _is_ the person before him, the spirit whose image keeps contorting, garbling into a swarming mess of blue meaningless to the immortal eye?

(but to the soul and self-)

“And don’t think so hard! Your head will explode,” Ghostbur chides, and Dream turns, blinking at the fellow ghost. He doesn’t quite know what to say to that comment - his head’s never exploded before, at least as far as he could remember, but maybe it had and he just couldn’t recall? 

The thought makes his head hurt. It doesn’t help that now Ghostbur is still… Ghostbur, his image skewing and twisting in ways it _really_ shouldn’t be - so he tries to focus on something else instead, like the way Techno is watching him now - with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow and something like _suspicion_ in the taut line of his jaw. Dream can’t help the way he shrivels under the gaze.

Pigs aren’t predators, but _piglins_ are warriors. Dream knows this - for just as he is of ender he knows the Blood God was forged from fire, from war and gold and bloodlust that drips and sears, molten in its fury. The Nether, somewhere in the belly of the beast, for if the End could be considered above then the Nether would be below. Heaven and hell, although neither really exist in this universe - but they do coexist, still, separately yet still together.

And the Blood God is watching him, with red coals for eyes, and Dream knows the hybrid is thinking _something_ but doesn’t know what.

“You look sad,” Ghostbur comments, breaking Dream out of his rapidly-spiraling thoughts. “Do you want some blue?”

And- 

-he knows Ghostbur’s only trying to help. He _knows._ Of _course_ he knows, the spirit is weird and constantly shifting, blurring at the edges and going out into - _something,_ he doesn’t know - but he can’t help the sudden wash of - of _despair_ that comes over him, splits his skin and makes him reel, just for a moment, because-

Dream doesn’t want _blue._ Dream wants _green,_ wants this weird urge to see his skin split and his bones shatter and spray _lime_ , he doesn’t want - he _wants._ But no one ever cares about what _he_ wants, at least not until his hands are dripping with crimson taint and he has a sword at their neck and a shield on his arm, mask snarling and red and evil and he doesn’t want to be - he _wants._ He’ll take what he can get. He just-

He just doesn’t want to be _red_ anymore.

“Okay,” Dream says faintly, feeling not really there as he automatically takes the blue that Ghostbur shoves into his hands, stares lifelessly at the way the color soaks into his palms, drips down his wrists, collects at his elbows and glistens. Blue. And the world around him swims, vision tunneling until all he feels is the drip, drip, drip, _drip-_

And he _wants_ it to, he really does, but-

It doesn’t help. Not really.

And he’s _dead,_ dead with a demon in his head and a constant headache pounding in his skull, and he’s so - he’s so-

-he’s so _alone_ and he came here for people like him, who could understand him and relate with him and be - be friends with him, because it’s so pathetic but he just - wants. To be free and to fly and to have people who won’t look at him and see a monster but see someone like them. Like - like _them,_ be _friends_ with them.

But he’s a fool. He should have known better.

Because Ghostbur is dead, is also something _else_ but is also not like Dream at all. But doesn’t have a Dreamon in him, and he’s not - he’s not _irredeemable_ like Dream.

And it just suddenly feels so - so _unfair._ Because why does Ghostbur get to have a second chance when Dream doesn’t, never does? Why does he get to - to - _to-_

And Dream sees - he sees Ghostbur, floating, happy and carefree, right in front of his face like a _taunt_ from a cruel, cruel god, so happy and unburdened and goddamn _dead,_ and… 

Alivebur smiles at him, with fractured eyes and a splintered smile and with a soul that burns Dreamon-red. Dripping. 

A reminder, maybe, of something he doesn’t even remember, and-

And then something clicks, in him - something makes _sense._

“Dre?” Ghostbur asks, his edges wisping and clouding with his concern - so _easy._ So _readable._ And now that Dream _looks_ he _sees -_ the spreading cracks, tangles of _pollution_ that are pulling the poor, wretched soul before him _apart-_

_oh my god._

Dream stares, his aura buzzing higher, horror rising like bile in his throat-

“Dre? Dre! Dre, can you hear me?”

_Wilbur was not supposed to die._

_Wilbur hadn’t - Wilbur had known? no, he couldn’t have - he wouldn’t have…_

_maybe Fundy? Fundy is Wilbur’s son, right, that has to mean something - no it doesn’t-_

~~what do you mean? Wilbur always was supposed to-~~

_you said… you said-!_

~~i didn’t-~~

_you said - oh my. oh my god, you lied, you actually lied, you - you_ promised-

“Dre!”

Nonononono _no._ That was - that was _impossible._ That would mean - all of it had been for nothing. All of it had been - the rage is slow in coming, bubbling up beneath the horror, but it - oh _no-_

 _all this time, and you lied? you promised - you accused_ **_me-!_ **

~~i didn’t!~~

_you actually - you actually lied._

He can't - he can't believe this. He doesn’t even know why it’s surprising to him. Night is a liar, isn’t even human, is a _Dreamon_ through and through and _through_ and - Dream should have known. Dream doesn’t even know why he tastes the sickly-sweet-sour taste of betrayal on his tongue, doesn’t know why he feels like his world has been flipped upside-down and inside-out, doesn't _know-_

They’d never been - they’d never been on his side, of course, that was _fine,_ it was something he could understand, but-

 _what else have you_ **_done?!_ ** he demands - _who else have you hurt, what else have you-_

The network rocks, crumbling, beneath the earth, and Dream thinks he’s going to throw up.

 _you actually lied,_ Dream thinks dizzily, and everything is spinning. God, he should have known. No matter what Night had said, had promised, he actually - he hadn’t - _you don’t even fucking regret it, do you? you’re fucking laughing right now, i bet. you don’t even care. you never - you never even cared._

There’s a long silence. Distantly, Dream recognises that he’s gone impossibly still - that Ghostbur is waving a hand in front of his face, yelling his name and looking almost _worried_ \- but he can’t hear it. His ears are waterlogged and a pit has opened up in his stomach and everything feels a thousand miles away.

He's shaking.

He just - he can’t _believe-_

 ~~no~~ , Night says finally, and Dream should have _known._ He should have _known._ But - but. But then again-

~~but it was never meant to be.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that escalated quickly
> 
> listen tommy has Big Teenager Energy because duh. he’s tommy
> 
> as to why he's so salty to dream, he really has every right to be - from his pov dream has been manipulating him and hurting him for probably years, is finally sent to prison and tommy can finally catch his breath - and then comes back as a ghost, because he can never get a break huh. as much as i love tommy&dream sibling energy, it’s not very realistic considering the events that have happened, and definitely won’t be happening anytime soon in this fic. Maybe even never, because i really don’t want to force tommy to forgive dream when he has every right not to. As much as this fic is dream-centric, i want to give everyone a chance to heal :3
> 
> even if tommy does learn about nightmare, it probably won’t make him trust dream any more due to old trauma (cough cough manipulation, cough cough c!dream you’re a bastard), and i’m trying to go with somewhat-realistic scenarios here.


	6. we could be taking control, yeah (it wouldn't be this difficult, if we)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ant… he knows that name. Recollection is strange because thoughts and images and whispers that don’t belong to him jump forward, eager to be recalled - remembered, but he’s never known in the first place. He shakes his head - Ant’s head, he’s actually solid, this is so strange, weird, _not right_ \- and he’s - what’s he - what had Ant been doing?
> 
> Is he Ant? Or is he the other, the - the - what’s his name - wait-
> 
> -what’s - what, _what is-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for disappearing this long, ehehe... irl is kicking my ass.
> 
> tws: panic attacks, disassociation, attempted manipulation, possession
> 
> (chapter title is from _taking control_ by the raptures & sam ourt)

Once upon a time, this world did not exist.

Dream remembers running, remembers flying, remembers fleeing. Manhunts and worlds he went through faster than anything, stories that crumbled to the final strike of an axe or sword to a dragon’s heart. Burning supernovas that rocked him off his feet, veils of woven starlight that called to him. Beckoning.

Pillars that touched void with how high they loomed, a core of strength that fell to his boredom.

Dream - _remembers._ He knows.

Night tries to reach for him, wrestle for the memories, steal it all away again but Dream _hurls_ them off, shakes out his arms and feels the red retreat, skittering, with how the lime of his green burns. He thinks he’s screaming, maybe aloud or internally or both, but he can’t tell - can’t hear. All he feels is his world, crumbling, everything he’d ever known laid scattered at his feet. All he hears is the broken pound, the shattered pulse, the ruin that burns below him and pitches and rocks with how it heaves.

Night wasn’t - Night had never been malicious. At least not - not _outwardly,_ not to _him._ Not to _Dream,_ who knew all their tricks, knew how their little games worked, made an irontight deal just to be sure they wouldn’t go behind his back - he’d given them _everything,_ all of him. His body, his world, his _mind-_

~~_my_ world ~~

_no,_ he says. _no, not your world. we made a - we made a deal, i followed every single fucking rule you laid down even when it tore me and my - my friends, when it tore us apart and you - you - you just - you-!_

~~i did no such thing! you agreed to the terms-~~

_i_ **_followed_ ** _your fucking terms-! i, i did everything you asked of me, you just -_ he can’t, he can’t, this can’t be real, it just can’t - _but it is,_ he thinks wildly, _but you did and you don’t even care. what the fuck? why don’t you care?_

 ~~your _problem,_ ~~ they snarl, ~~is that you care too _much._ ~~

_that’s not the point!_ _you didn’t even - we made a deal. you - did you even do the bare_ minimum _on your end?! you didn’t, did you? no, you just - you lied, you took what i gave you and you didn’t even - you didn’t - you did nothing, lied to my own fucking face my own_ mind _and you - you-_

He doesn’t even know anymore. Everything they’d done, everything they’d - they’d just - they had - they-

 _-you_ **knew!** he howls, wretched, his mindspace teeters and it is fragments and pieces, pieces, we all fall down - _you knew, you knew you knew you_ knew - _how could you?! i did everything i could for_ you - _did that mean nothing? did our deal mean nothing?_

 _did_ ** _i_** _mean nothing?_

The red rattles with an unfamiliar frequency, too sudden and sharp and brittle, something like ~~fear~~ like ~~denial~~ like ~~_what are you-?_ ~~

_(i̷ ̴d̶o̷n̵’̷t̸ ̶n̵e̷e̶d̵ ̴y̸o̶u̴ ̵y̸o̵u̵ ̵f̴u̸c̵k̸i̴n̸g̵ ̷l̸i̵a̵r̸ ̸ẏ̷̰ọ̴̉ṳ̷̏ ̴̧̾l̵̯͐i̸̯͘e̸̘̊d̶̙̔ ̴͕͠y̸͚̌ô̶̩ù̴͇ ̷̫͠l̷̼͘ị̷̄e̵͔̕d̵̤́ ̵̺̇y̴̛̮̼̐͌̍͛̏́͐ơ̷͕̝͈̏̏͐̏̇͆̕ȗ̷͖̹͖̱͎̦̳̠̩̮̪͇̾͆͑̂̚͘͠ͅ y̴̛̮̼̐͌̍͛̏́͐ơ̷͕̝͈̏̏͐̏̇͆̕ȗ̷͖̹͖̱͎̦̳̠̩̮̪͇̾͆͑̂̚͘͠ͅ ̶̨̛͕̩͙̝̭̘̤̺̦̪̀̊̒͑̈͂̎̂̒͂͘͠ **ḽ̸̥͖̮̥́̾̃̇͋̅̊̎̇͘̕͝ͅi̸̡̢̡̢̹͈̥̯̯̳̓̍͛̈́͒̚̚͜e̸̪͆̋͐͝d̶̜̥̺͇͇̲̦̜̰̻̖̐̓̅̈́̎͑̓͑͗̔͊** ) _

Blue echoes against the corners of his vision but Dream is so so angry. His skin is splitting apart and he feels his form fissure, leaking wisps of _other_ that spill and steam against the medium of air, hissing, hot and freezing cold. He pushes back, feels the blue and red recoil and meld and he’s so angry. He’s so _angry._ He’s never felt like this before.

this - this crushing _horror,_ defeat, _desolation-_

 _-resignation._ He really should have known.

(it’s hard, admittedly, to be mad at n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ when he’s known them for so long. when they feel almost like a sibling at this point, however cruel and uncaring, however much disdain they hold for him in return. 

it’s hard to hate a monster 

when he knows it doesn’t even matter

and it’s 

so 

much 

easier 

to 

hate 

_himself.)_

_i just - i just._

_why would you?_

he asks it, broken, and his rage crumbles to nothing as fast as it comes. No, it dulls - to an ache, an empty sort of agony that throbs, insistent, and he thinks he might be crying. He reaches up and presses his hands to his mask, a wounded noise escaping him that might be a sob or a scream or a - something, he feels so drained. So defeated.

His mask is so, so hot. He thinks it might be turning to dust in his hands; he isn’t sure.

 _i hurt them for you,_ he thinks when they don’t respond, _i hurt - i hurt everyone for you, i let_ **_you_ ** _hurt them and you couldn’t even - you couldn’t even hold up your end of the deal._ His hands fall from his face, and he can feel his body trembling. He’s suddenly so very aware of how Techno and Phil are on their feet, swords drawn and watching him with tight expressions, frantic fear pulsing off of them in electric currents that make his aura twitch. _i gave you everything i had._ Ghostbur floating in front of him, looking horribly uncertain and confused and off-kilter and _wrong_ as he ripples, unreal, in front of him. And he can’t even - he can’t even.

He has to - he has to.

Even if it hurts.

 _tell me what you did,_ he demands, sudden and he feels the red jerk back at his sudden energy, manic and buzzing - _tell me what you did right now,_ n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ - _tell me, before i_ **_destroy_ ** _you-_

 ~~i didn’t do anything~~ \- there’s something like nervous energy pooling off the words, does Night _fear_ him-?

 _(they wouldn’t they’re a_ Dreamon _no of_ course _they would)_

~~tommy deserved it, anyways - it was our world, he shouldn’t have been allowed to make a whole new ass country-~~

The fury twists in him, so hot and bright and red it _burns,_ like claws gripping him and he wants to - to hurt something. To _hate_ something and rip it apart and tear it to shreds and _how dare you?_ just _how could you?_ and _why would you?_

Except there’s no point in asking, because he knows. He already _knows._

 _it’s_ **_my_ ** _world,_ he chokes out, low and dangerous and he can barely think without his thoughts blurring out with how furious he is - _it. is._ **_mine._ ** _you made it for me, i did it for you, it’s_ mine _and i can’t - i can’t believe you. that you have the audacity-_

-he stops, tries to clench his fists and breathe in deeply and calm himself but he can’t breathe and this world is swimming around him and he doesn’t know anything anymore.

 _it was my world, it still is, tommy was doing nothing wrong - he’s a_ kid, _by ender - it was_ **_fine!_ **

~~you’re so weak,~~ n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ sneers, ~~you’d let them just walk all over you? take your land and steal your soul and _ruin_ you all for _nothing-_ ~~

_god_ ** _damn,_** yes! Dream shouts - he sobs aloud, thoughts all over the place, scattered, _how could they - yes, why wouldn’t i? you know that, you’re_ here _after all - i don’t care. as long as they - as long as we could’ve still been friends, as long as - as they didn’t_ hate _me - you made them hate us - you made…_

... _you…_

 _...no._ he trails off in realization.

i ~~kept my end of the deal,~~ n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ says, and they don’t even sound smug. They just sound _-_ they sound…

...they sound tired.

But Night is a Dreamon and Dreamons _lie-_

~~you wanted me to unite the people of this world, didn’t you?~~

_no,_ Dream thinks - _no, tell me you didn’t_ \- he can’t - why - why? Why like _this,_ how could they - how could they _justify_ it just like - _how? not like - not like this! not like - how? how_ could _you?!_

 ~~i did everything you wanted of me~~ -

 _then what about_ **_wilbur,_ ** huh? Dream shouts suddenly, so sick of being led around like a blind little sheep, meek and following and so _dumb,_ how could he not have _known_ and he just _can’t do this anymore -_ he _has_ to, though - and, and _what about the egg? what were you trying to achieve by that, then? what - why… why did you - you can’t. you can’t - you can’t_ lie _to me, you fucking - Night. don’t even try. you can’t lie to me, i_ know, _i_ remember-

-he doesn’t, don’t call his bluff, but they _know-_

 ~~no you don’t,~~ Night snarls, ~~you don’t even know your friends. don’t even know their goddamn names, their fucking faces. you forgot them because they didn’t _matter_ to you, don’t you fucking see? you forgot- ~~

_stop MANIPULATING me!_ Dream screams - _i can tell when you lie, shut up, shut up shut up shutupshutupshutUP - i don’t want to hear it go away go away go away GO-_

 ~~it’s just the _truth,_ ~~ ~~dreamer~~ -

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispers, aloud - _fuck you, fuck you, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, shutthe_ **_hell_ ** _upidon’twantto_ **_hear_ ** _it-_

 ~~this world was doomed to die from the beginning,~~ Night says, their voice a low rattle; ~~you can’t stop it, now.~~

 _yes i can,_ Dream thinks even as he knows it’s a hopeless plea, _fucking watch me. fucking - i’ll prove you wrong, i’ll-_

 ~~you have no power,~~ they croon, ~~you are nothing.~~

And that’s - that’s. 

It’s so wrong he wants to _laugh._ He thinks he might be going insane from it all, just - just,

“Ghostbur,” he says, aloud, voice breaking, desperate and _just please -_ “Gho- _Wilbur.”_ He sees the man snap to attention in front of him, spine going ramrod-straight and all his lines firming, silhouette sharpening into something tangible. Something _real,_ and red, and terrifying but he - he has to _._ “Wil - please, I know that you can - please - please, just, blue-”

 _understanding shifts into eyes that ripple red-gray-blueblue_ blue _and the colors warp into a rock that pulses with something that s̸h̷o̷u̵l̴d̷ ̴n̷͓͗o̵t̸̞͊ ̷̟b̵̨̕e̴ and lunges forward and devours him whole-not-whole-_

~~what - no! you idiot - why would you _\- why-?!_ ~~

~~_why...?_ ~~

**_d̶o̴n̷’̴t̴ ̸y̶o̶u̸ ̴t̵r̸u̶s̵t̸ ̵m̵e̴?_ ** _̴o̶f̷ ̵c̴o̷u̶r̷s̸e̶ ̶i̶ ̶d̸o̸n̶’̵t̴,w̸h̷y̶ ̸w̵o̴u̸l̴d̸ ̶i̶? ̸_ **_i ̸w̴o̷u̴l̷d̴ ̴h̸a̴v̸e̷ ̸p̷r̷o̵t̵e̵c̷t̶e̵d̷ ̵y̴o̷u̴_ ** _. ̴t̵h̷a̷t̴’̴s̴ ̵a̸ ̴li̸e̵ ̵a̵n̶d̶ ̶y̴o̶u̴ ̷k̴n̶o̸w̶ ̴i̴t̸._ **_̴it ̶is̵n̴’̵t̵._ ** _i̸t̸ ̷i̷s. ̷i̴t ̷re̶a̷l̶ly̴ ̴i̵s._

**_…i’m̴ ̵s̸o̴r̷r̷y̸._ **

_̶n̶o̶,̷ ̴y̸o̷u̵’̸r̸e̵ ̵n̴o̸t̴._

**_..._ **

**_n̵o̴, i̸’m̸ n̴o̴t._ **

The world tilts and rustles, rushes, the tide swallows him and after everything stops listing sideways and upside-down he - gulps in air he doesn’t need and can’t have, feels his mask cool to icy stone on his face, every cell of his being open to the freezing air.

_blue. blue. blue-_

“Thanks, Wilbur,” he manages and the world is rushing colors, sound and noise and struggling thought _blueblueblue_ and the network claims him and he is green again, again.

-

In the world of tangled bright and dark and life and not there is something creeping, hissing, poisonous and polluting and it tears the red from his skin and soul and scatters it to something _less_ but also _more_. A hive mind, maybe, he thinks - the pulsing red is leaves in wind, sand in ocean and stars dotting sky. But red, and bleeding, and burning.

They’re hurting, he should go help them, he needs to _go-_

He gasps and reaches for the red closest to him and _wrenches-pulls-tugs-oh-?_

_-what’s this?_

Voices crowd his head and it’s so clearly the work of n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹ that he feels himself recoil instinctively, shoving them away. They recede into the background buzz of static he’s grown familiar with, clouding his thoughts - their thoughts - but he’s stronger, and he’s used to this. His head - wait, his head?

This isn’t his body, it’s too solid and heavy and _breathing-_

Dream - is he Dream? _isn’t his name Ant -_ **n̷** ȯ̶̗, he refutes, harsh and heavy and forceful and the colors that aren’t him sink under again - he’s in - he’s in a body, no, he’s in a mind - or is it both - neither? - not - and he is breathing he is _alive_ he’s _alive-_

-that can’t - that’s not - this isn’t-

_what’s happening? why am i-_

Ant… he knows that name. Recollection is strange because thoughts and images and whispers that don’t belong to him jump forward, eager to be recalled - remembered, but he’s never known in the first place. He shakes his head - Ant’s head, he’s actually solid, this is so strange, weird, _not right -_ and he’s - what’s he - what had Ant been doing?

Is he Ant? Or is he the other, the - the - what’s his name - wait-

-what’s - what, _what is-_

-there’s a terrifying, breathless moment where he can’t remember and then he’s doubling over, headache forking through his mind like lightning and - _Dream,_ he’s _Dream_ the tyrant the cruel the ~~kind~~ the ~~friend~~ the evil the the the. He’s so much to Antfrost, a jumble of thoughts bundled together and seeping red and sparking, spiked-through and spitting with emotions he can’t parse through without his eyes burning and his throat closing and it’s so strange, it’s so _strange._ He doesn’t know himself - does he? - but he knows what Ant thinks of him, however corrupted and clearly-infected and _not right_ the thoughts are - the things are.

Memories, but they’re skewed and twisted and torn apart, fit back together and stained through with the lense of a n̵̹̍i̷̺͊g̶̬̈́h̵̉͜t̶̤͝m̷̹̏á̷̢r̵͚̋ê̵̹.

So this is how Night got some of them to turn against him. He’d be almost impressed, if it weren’t so clearly _wrong._

Because - because this isn't right. This mind is straining under the weight of so much pressure, of the raw magicks laid on layer after layer, corrupting and corroding and with a clear lack of care for the host’s body and well-being. It’s being _destroyed_ from the exposure, peeling apart and crumbling down to the barest embers of thought, and it’s a pitiful sight if he’s being honest. Raw magic isn’t something to be taken lightly - that’s why Dream wears a mask, partially for protection. And for a lot of other reasons as well, but it is rather good for chasing away some of the more… deteriorating side effects.

And, well, Ant may not consider them friends - or at least, Night had goaded them not to - but Antfrost was on his server. He was his responsibility.

 _And it’s your fault he’s like this,_ he thinks bitterly to himself.

He settles more strongly into the body that isn’t his, wincing a little at the _wrongness_ of it all. It’s too lanky, too long, too - too _weird,_ and the wave of dysphoria that rattles his bones and shifts the pools of red-green-not color in the mind is unsettling, to say the least.

Ant stirs, trapped beneath what must be a mountain, and Dream can’t help but empathize. _what’s my - what’s my name-?_

 _Sorry,_ Dream thinks regretfully, and is more gentle this time in coaxing Ant back beneath the heavy blanket of unawareness almost-sleep. He knows from experience - though he doesn’t quite remember - that Ant will wake up later dizzy, head pounding and stomach throbbing, hungry and tired because the _thing_ haunting you doesn’t care about basic needs like eat or sleep or shit. And it makes something twist in Dream, because of course he’ll be careful with his not-friend’s body, but is this - is this-

-he has to do it, he reminds himself, but does he really?

Actually, what is he doing here anyways?

He’s distracted from his thoughts by the feeling of something soft and furry whisking over his legs, brushing against what feels like armor and _wait -_ is that - is that a tail? _Ant’s_ tail? Ant has a tail? Is Ant a furry? A cat? Now that he’s paying attention, is that _fur?_ Are those _whiskers?_

He can only stare, dumbfounded, because it’s - it’s strange. His whiskers - Ant’s whiskers? Ant’s whiskers - twitch against the gentle breeze, and with a start Dream realizes Ant is in the middle of a mine, pickaxe in hand and staring blankly ahead at a wall dotted with chunks of ore. It’s strange to see the world through someone else’s eyes - Ant’s clearly some sort of shifter or hybrid, and it makes something in Dream pang, again, upon realising he’s doing exactly what Night is doing.

 _But I’m going to fix this,_ he swears to himself, and tenses Ant’s arm muscles - except everything feels uncoordinated and _off,_ and the movement actually makes the body stumble, sagging towards the side as Dream attempts to place the pickaxe back into Ant’s inventory. He does eventually manage to slide it into the handy pocket dimension, but only after lots of flailing and contorting and weird jolts of not-awareness coming from where Ant’s consciousness was located, buried somewhere beneath strewn red and green in their mind.

The guilt stings in him again, and Dream grits fangs that aren’t his and shoves it down.

It’s strange, too - Dream’s used to a lack of sensation in his facial area, it comes with wearing a mask. Ant, however, is so _sensitive_ there - the slightest muscle twitch and the cat breed’s whiskers are twitching, brushing against what feels like fur, and it nearly makes Dream jump out of this body in surprise every time. Not to mention the tail, too - every touch of the appendages he doesn’t usually have make him instinctively recoil, nerves too raw and stretched too far, vibrating with nervous energy and it just makes it all _worse._ The sudden info-dumps of sensation are disorienting, to say the least, and the sensory overload is strange and unfamiliar and - he wasn’t built for this, this wasn’t meant for him.

And suddenly Dream has to get out. This skin is too long too small too short too much and he can’t he can’t he can’t this body isn’t his he has no business being here no _right,_ and he stumbles back - Ant’s tail lashes backwards instinctively for balance as the world sways around him and he wants to throw up - but that would be rude, this isn’t his body, he shouldn’t - he shouldn’t - what is he doing here? why is he - what is he - nonono _no-_

Dream looks down, desperately reaching for something - someone - _something -_ the network is claustrophobia and open everything all in one and it makes his skin crawl but he needs to get out needs to leave _now_ \- _it’s not his it’s not his it’s not HIS -_ and he gasps aloud, tears burn his eyes, and he feels Ant’s mouth drop open and sees its reflection’s facial muscles contort into fear-horror-fury and _screams-_

-Antfrost’s face stares back at him from a puddle on the floor, and the water ripples tauntingly back at him as the cat shifter’s eyes burn lime green.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> thanks for reading! Feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism whenever.
> 
> comments and kudos are very appreciated!


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